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TAKEN ALIVE 


AND OTHER STORIES. 



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Taken Alive 


AND OTHER STORIES 


TOitlj an autobiograpts 


BY 



EDWARD R ROE 

\\ 


AUTHOR OF “barriers BURNED AWAY,” “OPENING OF A CHESTNUT BURR' 
“without a HOME,” “ MISS LOU,” ETC. 


^ * 




NEW YORK \ 

DODD, MEAD, AND COMPANY 

Publishers 





7 






\' 


4 


(a 


Copyright, 1883, 1889, 

By DODD, MEAD, & COMPANY. 


Copyright, 1888, 

By J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO. 

Copyright, 1892, 

By DODD, MEAD, & COMPANY. 


CONTENTS 


Pagb 

“A Native Author called Roe” 7 

Taken Alive : 

Chap. I. Something before Unknown 35 

II. A Visitor at the Mine 41 

III. Thwarted 46 

IV. Taken Alive 54 

V. What Brandt saw Christmas Eve .... 62 

Found Yet Lost : 

Chap. I. Love in the Wilderness 65 

II. Love at FIome 71 

III. “ Disabled ” 77 

IV. Martine seeks an Antidote 84 

V. Second Bloom 91 

VI. More than Reward 99 

VII. Yankee Blank 106 

VIII. “How CAN I.?” 1 15 

IX. Shadows of coming Events 124 

X. “You cannot Understand” 133 

XI. Mr. Kemble’s Appeal 140 

XII. “You MUST Remember” 146 

XIII. “I’M Helen” IS 4 

XIV. “Forward! Company A ” 164 


vi CONTENTS. 

Page 

Queen of Spades 174 

An Unexpected Result 204 

A Christmas-Eve Suit ? . 233 

Three Thanksgiving Kisses 253 

Susie Rolliffe’s Christmas 276 

Jeff’s Treasure : 

Chap. I. Its Discovery 308 

II. Its Influence 316 

Caught on the Ebb-tide 327 

Christmas Eve in War Times 341 

A Brave Little Quakeress 364 


LIST' OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


Portrait of author, Frontispiece. 

PAGE 

He came and .stood beside her, 64 

He kissed her hand in homage, 105 

I 

“ Oh, Albert,” cried the girl, rushing to him, . . 162 

She sprang to meet Ackland, standing with folded 

ARMS 227 

The MOMENT Elsie was free she darted back to the 

WINDOW, 255 

“A LETTER TO ME ! ” CRIED THE GIRL, SPRINGING UP, . 504 

“ It will be safer to remain in your boat,” . . 339 
Jamie ran to open it, 359 


% 


“A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE.” 


Butobiograpl)^. 


WO or three years ago the editor of “ Lippincott’s Maga- 



-i- zine ” asked me, with many others, to take part in the 
very interesting “ experience meeting ” begun in the pages of 
that enterprising periodical. I gave my consept without much 
thought of the effort involved, but as time passed, felt slight 
inclination to comply with the request There seemed little 
to say of interest to the general public, and I was distinctly 
conscious of a certain sense of awkwardness in writing about 
myself at all. The question. Why should I ? always con- 
fronted me. 

When this request was again repeated early in the current 
year, I resolved at least to keep my promise. This is done 
with less reluctance now, for the reason that floating through 
the press I meet with paragraphs concerning myself that are 
incorrect, and often absurdly untrue. These literary and per- 
sonal notes, together with many questioning letters, indicate 
a certain amount of public interest, and I have concluded 
that it may be well to give the facts to those who care to 
know them. 

It has been made more clear to me that there are many who 
honestly do care. One of the most prized rewards of my lit- 
erary work is the ever-present consciousness that my writings 
hav^drawn around me a circle of unknown, yet stanch friends, 
who have stood by me unfalteringly for a number of years. I 
should indeed be lacking if my heart did not go out to them in 
responsive friendliness and good-will. If I looked upon them 
merely as an aggregation of customers, they would find me out 


8 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


speedily. A popular mood is a very different thing from an 
abiding popular interest. If one could address this circle of 
friends only, the embarrassment attendant on a certain amount 
of egotism would be banished by the assurance of sympathetic 
regard. Since, from the nature of circumstances, this is im- 
possible, it seems to me in better taste to consider the “ author 
called Roe ” in an objective, rather than in a friendly and sub- 
jective sense. In other words, I shall try to look at him from 
the public point of view, and free myself from some predisposi- 
tion in his favor shared by his friends. I suppose I shall not 
succeed in giving a colorless statement of facts, but I may avoid 
much special pleading in his behalf. 

Like so many other people, I came from a very old family, 
one from which there is good proof of an unbroken line through 
the Dark Ages, and all ages, to the first man. I have never 
given any time to tracing ancestry, but have a sort of quiet 
satisfaction that mine is certainly American as far as it well 
can be. My forefathers (not “ rude,” to my knowledge) were 
among the first settlers on the Atlantic seaboard. My paternal 
and maternal grandfathers were stanch Whigs during the Revo- 
lution, and had the courage of their convictions. My grand- 
mother escaped with her children from the village of Kingston 
almost as the British entered it, and her home was soon in 
ashes. Her husband, James Roe, was away in the army. My 
mother died some years before I attained my majority, and I 
cannot remember when she was not an invalid. Such literary 
tendencies as I have are derived from her, but I do not possess a 
tithe of her intellectual power. Her story-books in her youth 
were the classics ; and when she was but twelve years of age she 
knew “ Paradise Lost ” by heart. In my recollections of her, 
the Bible and all works tending to elucidate its prophecies were 
her favorite themes of study. The retentiveness of her memory 
was very remarkable. If any one repeated a verse of the New 
Testament, she could go on and finish the chapter. Indeed, she 
could quote the greater part of the Bible with the ease and ac- 
curacy of one reading from the printed page. The works of 
Hugh Miller and the Arctic Explorations of Dr. Kane afforded 
her much pleasure. Confined usually to her room, she took 


•‘A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROET 


9 


unfailing delight in wandering about the world with the great 
travellers of that day, her strong fancy reproducing the scenes 
they described. A stirring bit of history moved her deeply. 
Well do I remember, when a boy, of reading to her a chapter 
from Motley’s “ Dutch Republic,” and of witnessing in her 
flushed cheeks and sparkling black eyes proof of an excitement 
all too great for one in her frail health. She had the unusual 
gift of relating in an easy, simple way what she read ; and many 
a book far too abstruse and dull for my boyish taste became an 
absorbing story from her lips. One of her chief characteristics 
was the love of flowers. I can scarcely recall her when a flower 
of some kind, usually a rose, was not within her reach ; and only 
periods of great feebleness kept her from their daily care, win- 
ter and summer. Many descendants of her floral pets are now 
blooming in my garden. 

My father, on the other hand, was a sturdy man of action. 
His love for the country was so strong that he retired from 
business in New York as soon as he had won a modest com- 
petence. For lorty-odd years he never wearied in the culti- 
vation of his little valley farm, and the square, flower-bordered 
garden, at one side of which ran an unfailing brook. In this 
garden and under his tuition I acquired my love of horticulture, 
— acquired it with many a backache, — heartache too, on days 
good for fishing or hunting ; but, taking the bitter with the 
sweet, the sweet predominated. I find now that I think only 
of the old-fashioned roses in the borders, and not of my hands 
bleeding from the thorns. If I groaned over the culture of 
many vegetables, it was much compensation to a boy that the 
dinner-table groaned also under the succulent dishes thus pro- 
vided. I observed that my father’s interest in his garden and 
farm never flagged, thus proving that in them is to be found 
a pleasure which does not pall with age. During the last sum- 
mer of his life, when in his eighty-seventh year, he had the de- 
light of a child in driving over to my home in the early morn- 
ing, long before I was up, and in leaving a basket of sweet corn 
or some other vegetable which he knew would prove his garden 
to be ahead of mine. 

My father was very simple and positive in his beliefs, always 


lO 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


openly foremost in the reform movements of his day and in his 
neighborhood, yet never, to my knowledge, seeking or taking 
any office. His house often became a station of the “ under- 
ground railroad ” in slavery times, and on one night in the 
depth of winter he took a hotly-pursued fugitive in his sleigh 
and drove him five miles on the ice, diagonally across the Hud- 
son, to Fishkill, thence putting the brave aspirant for freedom 
on the way to other friends. He incurred several risks in this 
act. It is rarely safe to drive on the river off the beaten tracks 
at night, for there are usually air-holes, and the strong tides 
are continually making changes in the ice. When told that he 
might be sent to jail for his defiance of the Fugitive Slave Law, 
he quietly answered, “ 1 can go to jail.” The thing he could not 
do was to deny the man’s appeal to him for help. Before the 
war he was known as an Abolitionist, — after it, as a Conserva- 
tive, his sympathy with and for the South being very strong. 
During the draft riots in 1863 the spirit of lawlessness was on 
the point of breaking out in the river towns. I happened to 
be home from Virginia, and learned that my father’s house was 
among those marked for burning on a certain night. During 
this night the horde gathered ; but one of their leaders had re- 
ceived such emphatic warning of what would happen the fol- 
lowing day should outrages be perpetrated, that he persuaded 
his associates to desist. I sat up that night at my father’s 
door with a double-barrelled gun, more impressed with a 
sense of danger than at any other time in my experience ; he, 
on the contrary, slept as quietly as a child. 

He often practised close economy in order to give his sons 
a good education. The one act of my life which I remem- 
ber with unalloyed pride and pleasure occurred while I was at 
boarding-school in Vermont, preparing for college. I learned 
through my mother that my father had denied himself his daily 
newspaper ; and I knew well how much he would miss it. We 
burned wood in the large stone seminary building. Every au- 
tumn great ranks of hard maple were piled up, and students 
who wished to earn a little money were paid a dollar a cord for 
sawing it into three lengths. I applied for nine cords, and went 
at the unaccustomed task after study-hours. My back aches 


NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROET 


I I 

yet as I recall the experiences of subsequent weeks, for the 
wood was heavy, thick, and hard as bone. I eventually had 
the pleasure of sending to my father the subscription-price of 
his paper for a year. If a boy reads these lines, let me as- 
sure him that he will never know a sweeter moment in his 
life than when he receives the thanks of his parents for some 
such effort in their behalf. No investment can ever pay him 
better. 

In one of my books, “ Nature’s Serial Story,” my father and 
mother appear, slightly idealized. 

Towards the close of my first year in Williams College a mis- 
fortune occurred which threatened to be very serious. Study- 
ing by defective light injured my eyes. They quickly became 
so sensitive that I could scarcely endure lamplight or the heat 
of a stove, only the cold out-door air relieving the pain ; so I 
spent much time in wandering about in the boisterous weather 
of early spring in Williamstown. At last I became so dis- 
couraged that I went to President Hopkins and told him that 
I feared I must give up the purpose of acquiring an education. 
Never can I forget how that grand old man met the disheart- 
ened boy. Speaking in the wise, friendly way which subdued 
the heart and strengthened the will, he made the half-hour spent 
with him the turning-point of my life. In conclusion, he advised 
me to enter the Senior class the following fall, thus taking a 
partial course of study. How many men are living to-day who 
owe much of the best in their lives to that divinely-inspired 
guide and teacher of youth ! 

I next went to another man great in his sphere of life, — Dr. 
Agnew, the oculist. He gave my eyes a thorough examination, 
told me that he could do nothing for them; that rest and the 
vigor acquired from out-door life would restore them. He was 
as kind and sympathetic in his way as the college president, 
and charged but a trifle, to relieve me from the sense of taking 
charity. Dr. Agnew’s words proved correct ; and the follow- 
ing autumn I entered the class of ’6i, and spent a happy year. 
Some of my class-mates were very kind in reading aloud to me, 
while Dr. Hopkins’s instruction was invaluable. By the time 
I entered Auburn Theological Seminary my eyes were quite 


12 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


restored, and I was able to go through the first year’s course 
of study without difficulty. In the summer of 1862 I could no 
longer resist the call for men in the army. Learning that the 
Second New York (Harris’s Light) Cavalry was without a chap- 
lain, I obtained the appointment to that position. General Kil- 
patrick was then lieutenant-colonel, and in command of the 
regiment. In December, 1862, I witnessed the bloody and dis- 
astrous battle of Fredericksburg, and can never forget the expe- 
riences of that useless tragedy. I was conscious of a sensation 
which struck me as too profound to be merely awe. Early in 
the morning we crossed the Rappahannock on a pontoon bridge, 
and marched up the hill to an open plain. The roar of the bat- 
tle was simply terrific, shading off from the sharp continuous 
thunder immediately about us to dull, heavy mutterings far to 
the right and left. A few hundred yards before us, where the 
ground began to slope up to the fatal heights crowned with Con- 
federate works and ordnance, were long lines of Union batteries. 
From their iron mouths puffs of smoke issued incessantly, fol- 
lowed by tremendous reverberations. Back of these batteries 
the ground was covered with men lying on their arms, that 
they might present a less obvious target. Then a little farther 
to the rear, on the level ground above the bluff, stood our 
cavalry. Heavy guns on both sides of the river were send- 
ing their great shrieking shells back and" forth over our heads, 
and we often “ducked” instinctively when*the missile was at 
least forty feet above us. Even our horses shuddered at 
the sound. 

I resolved to learn if the men were sharing in my emotions, 
— in brief, what effect the situation had upon them, — and rode 
slowly down our regimental line. So vivid was the impression 
of that long array of awed, pallid faces that at this moment I 
can recall them distinctly. There were strange little touches 
of mingled pathos and humor. Meadow-larks were hemmed in 
on every side, too frightened to fly far beyond the rude alarms. 
They would flutter up into the sulphurous air with plaintive 
cries, then drop again into the open spaces between the troops. 
At one time, while we were standing at our horses’ heads, a‘'star- 
tled rabbit ran to us for cover. The poor little creature meant 


NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROET 


13 


a dinner to the fortunate captor on a day when a dinner was 
extremely problematical. We engaged in a sharp scramble, the 
prize being won by the regimental surgeon, who kindly shared 
his game with me. 

General Bayard, commanding our brigade, was mortally 
wounded, and died like a hero. He was carried to a fine 
mansion near which he had received his injury. Many other 
desperately-wounded men were brought to the spacious rooms 
of this abode of Southern luxury, and the surgeons were kept 
busy all through the day and night. It was here I gained my 
first experience in hospital work. This extemporized hospital 
on the field was so exposed as to be speedily abandoned. In 
the morning I recrossed the Rappahannock with my regiment, 
which had been ordered down the river on picket duty. Soon 
after we went into winter quarters in a muddy cornfield. In 
February I resigned, with the purpose of completing my studies, 
and spent the remainder of the term at the Union Theological 
Seminary of New York. My regiment would not get another 
chaplain, so I again returned to it. In November I received 
a month’s leave of absence, and was married to Miss Anna P. 
Sands, of New York City. Our winter quarters in 1864 were at 
Stevensburg, between the town of Culpeper and the Rapidan 
River. During the pleasant days of late February several of 
the officers were enjoying the society of their wives. Mrs. Roe 
having expressed a willingness to rough it with me for a week, 
I sent for her, and one Saturday afternoon went to the nearest 
railroad station to meet her. The train came, but not my wife; 
and, much disappointed, I found the return ride of five miles a 
dreary one in the winter twilight. I stopped at our colonel’s 
tent to say to him and his wife that Mrs. Roe had not come, 
then learned for the first time very startling tidings. 

“ Chaplain,” said the colonel, “ we are going to Richmond to- 
morrow. We are going to wade right through and past every- 
thing in a neck-or-nothing ride, and who will come out is a 
question.” 

His wife was weeping in her private tent, and I saw that for 
the first time in my acquaintance with him he was downcast. 
He was one of the bravest of men, yet now a foreboding of evil 


14 


TAKEAT ALIVE : AND OTHER STORIES. 


oppressed him. The result justified it, for he was captured 
during the raid, and never fully rallied after the war from the 
physical depression caused by his captivity. He told me that 
on the morrow General Kilpatrick would lead four thousand 
picked cavalry-men in a raid on Richmond, having as its special 
object the release of our prisoners. I rode to the headquarters 
of the general, who confirmed the tidings, adding, “You need 
not go. Non-combatants are not expected to go.” 

It was most fortunate that my wife had not come. I had re- 
cently been appointed chaplain of Hampton Hospital, Virginia, 
by President Lincoln, and was daily expecting my confirmation 
by the Senate. I had fully expected to give my wife a glimpse 
of army life in the field, and then to enter on my new duties. 
To go or not to go was a question with me that night. The raid 
certainly offered a sharp contrast with the anticipated week’s 
outing with my bride. I did not possess by nature that kind 
of courage which is indifferent to danger; and life had never 
offered more attractions than at that time. I have since en- 
joyed Southern hospitality abundantly, and hope to again, but 
then its prospect was not alluring. Before morning, however, 
I reached the decision that I would go, and during the Sun- 
day forenoon held my last service in the regiment. I had dis- 
posed of my horse, and so had to take a sorry beast at the last 
moment, the only one I could obtain. 

In the dusk of Sunday evening four thousand men were 
masked in the woods on the banks of the Rapidan. Our scouts 
opened the way by wading the stream and pouncing upon the 
unsuspecting picket of twenty Confederates opposite. Then 
away we went across a cold, rapid river, marching all that night 
through the dim woods and openings in a country that was em- 
phatically the enemy’s. Lee’s entire army was on our right, 
the main Confederate cavalry force on our left. The strength 
of our column and its objective point could not remain long 
unknown. 

In some unimportant ways I acted as aid for Kilpatrick. A 
few hundred yards in advance of the main body rode a van- 
guard of two hundred men, thrown forward to warn us should 
we strike any considerable number of the enemy’s cavalry. As 


NA'rirE AUTHOR CALLED ROET 15 

is ever the case, the horses of a small force will walk away from 
a much larger body, and it was necessary from time to time 
to send word to the vanguard, ordering it to “slow up.” This 
order was occasionally intrusted to me. I was to gallop over 
the interval between the two columns, then draw up by the 
roadside and sit motionless on my horse till the general with 
his staff came up. The slightest irregularity of action would 
bring a shot from our own men, while the prospect of an inter- 
view with the Johnnies while thus isolated was always good. 
I saw one of our officers shot that night. He had ridden care- 
lessly into the woods, and rode out again just before the head 
of the column, without instantly accounting for himself. As it 
was of vital importance to keep the movement secret as long 
as possible, the poor fellow was silenced in sad error as to his 
identity. 

On we rode, night and day, with the briefest possible halts. 
At one point we nearly captured a railroad train, and might 
easily have succeeded had not the station and warehouses been 
in flames. As it was, the train approached us closely, then 
backed, the shrieking engine itself giving the impression of 
being startled to the last degree. 

On a dreary, drizzling, foggy day we passed a milestone dn 
which was lettered, “Four miles to Richmond.” It was still 
“on to Richmond” with us what seemed a long way farther, 
and then came a considerable period of hesitancy, in which the 
command was drawn up for the final dash. The enemy shelled 
a field near us vigorously, but fortunately, or unfortunately, 
the fog was so dense that neither party could make accurate 
observations or do much execution. 

For reasons that have passed into history, the attack vlbs 
not made. We withdrew six miles from the city and went into 
camp. 

I had scarcely begun to enjoy much-needed rest before the 
Confederates came up in the darkness and shelled us out of 
such quarters as we had found. We had to leave our boiling 
coffee behind us, — one of the greatest hardships I have ever 
known. Then followed a long night-ride down the Peninsula, 
in driving sleet and rain. 


l6 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

The next morning the sun broke out gloriously, warming and 
drying our chilled wet forms. Nearly all that day we main- 
tained a line of battle confronting the pursuing enemy One 
brigade would take a defensive position, while the other would 
march about five miles to a commanding point, where it in turn 
would form a line. The first brigade would then give way, pass 
through the second, and take position well to the rear. Thus, 
although retreating, we were always ready to fight. At one point 
the enemy pressed us closely, and I saw a magnificent cavalry 
charge down a gentle descent in the road. Every sabre seemed 
tipped with fire in the brilliant sunshine. 

In the afternoon it became evident that there was a body 
of troops before us. Who or what they were was at first un- 
known, and for a time the impression prevailed that we should 
have to cut our way through by a headlong charge. We soon 
learned, however, that the force was a brigade of colored in- 
fantry, sent up to cover our retreat. It was the first time we 
had seen negro troops, but as the long line of glistening bayonets 
and light-blue uniforms came into view, prejudices, if any there 
were, vanished at once, and a cheer from the begrimed troopers 
rang down our line, waking the echoes. It was a pleasant thing 
to march past that array of faces, friendly though black, and 
know we were safe. They represented the F. F. V.’s of Old 
Virginia we then wished to see. On the last day of the march 
my horse gave out, compelling me to walk and lead him. 

On the day after our arrival at Yorktown, Kilpatrick gave me 
despatches for the authorities at Washington. President Lin- 
coln, learning that I had just returned from the raid, sent for 
me, and I had a memorable interview with him alone in his 
private room. He expressed profound solicitude for Colonel 
Dahlgren and his party. They had been detached from the 
main force, and I could give no information concerning them. 
We eventually learned of the death of that heroic young officer. 
Colonel Dahlgren. Although partially helpless from the loss of 
a leg, he led a daring expedition at the cost of his life. 

I expressed regret to the President that the object of the raid 
had not been accomplished. “ Pick the flint, and try it again,” 
said Mr. Lincoln, heartily. I went out from his presence awed 


iVATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE: 


17 


by the courage and sublime simplicity of the man. While he 
gave the impression that he was bearing the nation on his heart, 
one was made to feel that it was also large enough for sympathy 
with all striving with him in the humblest way. 

My wife joined me in Washington, and a few days later ac- 
companied me to the scene of my new labors at Hampton Hos- 
pital, near Fortress Monroe. There were not many patients at 
that time (March, 1864) in the large barrack wards; but as soon 
as the Army of the Potomac broke through the Wilderness and 
approached our vicinity, transports in increasing numbers, laden 
with desperately-wounded men, came to our wharf. During the 
early summer the wooden barracks were speedily filled, and 
many tent wards were added. Duty became constant and se- 
vere, while the scenes witnessed were often painful in the last 
degree. More truly than on the field, the real horrors of war 
are learned from the long agonies in the hospital. While in 
the cavalry service, I gained in vigor daily ; in two months of 
hospital work I lost thirty pounds. On one day I buried as 
many as twenty-nine men. Every evening, till the duty be- 
came like a nightmare, I followed the dead-cart, filled up with 
coffins, once, twice, and often thrice, to the cemetery. Event- 
ually an associate chaplain was appointed, who, relieved me of 
this task. 

Fortunately, my tastes led me to employ an antidote to my 
daily work as useful to me as to the patients. Surrounding the 
hospital was much waste land. This, with the approval of the 
surgeon in charge. Dr. Ely McMillan, and the aid of the con- 
valescents, I transformed into a garden; and for two successive 
seasons sent to the general kitchen fresh vegetables by the 
wagon-load. If reward were needed, the wistful delight with 
which a patient from the front would regard a raw onion was 
ample ; while for me the care of the homely, growing vegetables 
and fruit brought a diversion of mind which made life more 
endurable. 

One of the great needs of the patients who had to fight the 
winning or losing battle of life was good reading; and I speedily 
sought to obtain a supply. Hearts and purses at the North re- 
sponded promptly and liberally ; publishers threw off fifty per 

2 


i8 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


cent from their prices ; and I was eventually able to collect, by 
gift and purchase, about three thousand volumes. In gathering 
this library, I provided what may be distinctly termed religious 
reading in abundance ; but I also recognized the need of diver- 
sion. Long wards were filled with men who had lost a leg or an 
arm, and who must lie in one position for weeks. To help them 
get through the time was to help them to live. I therefore made 
the library rich in popular fiction and genial books of travel and 
biography. Full sets of Irving, Cooper, Dickens, Thackeray, 
Scott, Marryatt, and other standard works were bought ; and 
many a time I have seen a poor fellow absorbed in their pages 
while holding his stump lest the jar of a footstep should send a 
dart of agony to the point of mutilation. My wife gave much 
assistance in my hospital duties, often reaching and influencing 
those beyond me. I recall one poor fellow who was actually six 
months in dying from a very painful wound. Profanity appeared 
to be his vernacular, and in bitter protest at his fate, he would 
curse nearly every one and everything. Mrs. Roe’s sympathy 
and attentions changed him very much, and he would listen 
quietly as long as she would read to him. Some of the hos- 
pital attendants, men and women, had good voices, and we or- 
ganized a choir. Every Sunday afternoon we went from ward 
to ward singing familiar hymns. It was touching to see rough 
fellows drawing their blankets over their heads to hide the emo- 
tion caused by words and melodies associated, in many instances, 
with home and mother. 

Northern generosity, and, in the main, convalescent labor 
enabled me to build a large commodious chapel and to make 
great improvements in the hospital farm. The site of the 
hospital and garden is now occupied by General Armstrong’s 
Normal and Agricultural Institute for Freedmen, and the 
chapel was occupied as a place of worship until very recently. 
Thus a noble and most useful work is being accomplished on 
the ground consecrated by the life-and-death struggles of so 
many Union soldiers. 

In 1865 the blessed era of peace began, bringing its many 
changes. In October the hospital became practically empty, 
and I resigned. The books were sent to Fortress Monroe 


NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROET 1 9 

for the use of the garrison, and I found many of them there 
long years after, almost worn out from use. 

After a little rest and some candidating for a church, I took a 
small parish at Highland Falls, about a mile from West Point, 
New York, entering on my labors in January, 1866. In this 
village my wife and I spent nine very happy years. They were 
full of trial and many cares, but free from those events which 
bring the deep shadows into one’s life. We soon became en- 
gaged in building a new stone church, whose granite walls are 
so thick, and hard-wood finish so substantial that passing cen- 
turies should add only the mellowness of age. The effort to 
raise funds for this enterprise led me into the lecture-field and 
here I found my cavalry-raid and army life in general exceed- 
ingly useful. I looked around for a patch of garden-ground as 
instinctively as a duck seeks water. The small plot adjoin- 
ing the parsonage speedily grew into about three acres, from 
which eventually came a book entitled “ Play and Profit in my 
Garden.” 

Up to the year 1871 I had written little for publication be- 
yond occasional contributions to the New York “ Evangelist,” 
nor had I seriously contemplated a literary life. I had always 
been extremely fond of fiction, and from boyhood had formed 
a habit of beguiling the solitary hours in weaving crude fancies 
around people who for any reason interested me. I usually had 
a mental serial running, to which I returned when it was my 
mood ; but I had never written even a short story. In October, 
1871, I was asked to preach for a far up-town congregation in 
New York, with the possibility of a settlement in view. On 
Monday following the services of the Sabbath, the officers of 
the church were kind enough to ask me to spend a week with 
them and visit among the people. Meantime, the morning 
papers laid before us the startling fact that the city of Chicago 
was burning and that its population was becoming homeless. 
The tidings impressed me powerfully, waking the deepest sym- 
pathy. I said to myself, “ Here is a phase of life as remarkable 
as any witnessed during the war.” I obeyed the impulse to 
be on the scene as soon as possible, stated my purpose to my 
friends, and was soon among the smoking ruins, finding an 


20 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


abiding-place with throngs of others in a partially-finished ho^ 
tel. For days and nights I wandered where a city had been, and 
among the extemporized places of refuge harboring all classes 
of people. Late one night I sat for a long time on the 
steps of Robert Collyer’s church and watched the full moon 
through the roofless walls and shattered steeple. There was 
not an evidence of life where had been populous streets. It 
was there and then, as nearly as I can remember, that the 
vague outlines of my first story, “ Barriers Burned Away,” be- 
gan to take form in my mind. I soon returned home, and began 
to dream and write, giving during the following year such 
hours as could be withdrawn from many other duties to the 
construction of the story. I wrote when and where I could, — 
on steamboats, in railway cars, and at all odd hours of leisure, 
often with long breaks in the work of composition, caused by 
the pressure of other affairs, again getting up a sort of white 
heat from incessantly dwelling upon scenes and incidents that 
had become real to me. In brief, the story took possession 
of my mind, and grew as naturally as a plant or a weed in my 
garden. 

It will thus be obvious that at nearly middle age, and in obe- 
dience to an impulse, I was launched as an author ; that I had 
very slight literary training; and that my appearance as a novel- 
ist was quite as great a surprise to myself as to any of my 
friends. The writing of sermons certainly does not prepare one 
for the construction of a novel ; and to this day certain critics 
contemptuously dismiss my books as “preaching.” During 
nearly four years of army life, at a period when most young men 
are forming style and making the acquaintance of literature, I 
scarcely had a chance to read at all. The subsequent years 
of the pastorate were too active, except for an occasional dip 
into a favorite author. 

While writing my first story, I rarely thought of the public, the 
characters and their experiences absorbing me wholly. When 
my narrative was actually in print, there was wakened a very 
deep interest as to its reception. I had none of the confidence 
resulting from the gradual testing of one’s power or from asso- 
ciation with literary people, and I also was aware that when 


A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROET 


21 


published, a book was far away from the still waters of which 
one’s friends are the protecting headlands. That I knew my 
work to be exceedingly faulty goes without saying ; that it was 
utterly bad, I was scarcely ready to believe. Dr. Field, noted 
for his pure English diction and taste, would not publish an 
irredeemable story, and the constituency of the New York 
“ Evangelist ” is well known to be one of the most intelligent 
in the country. Friendly opinions from serial-readers were re- 
assuring as far as they went, but of course the great majority of 
those who followed the story were silent. A writer cannot, like 
a speaker, look into the eyes of his audience and observe its 
mental attitude towards his thought. If my memory serves me, 
Mr. R. R. Bowker was the earliest critic to write some friendly 
words in the “ Evening Mail ; ” but at first my venture was very 
generally ignored. Then some unknown friend marked an in- 
fluential journal published in the interior of the State and mailed 
it so timely that it reached me on Christmas eve. I doubt if a 
book was ever more unsparingly condemned than mine in that re- 
view, whose final words were, “ The story is absolutely nauseat- 
ing.” In this instance and in my salad days I took pains to find 
out who the writer was, for if his view was correct I certainly 
should not engage in further efforts to make the public ill. I 
discovered the reviewer to be a gentleman for whom I have 
ever had the highest respect as an editor, legislator, and honest 
thinker. My story made upon him just the impression he ex- 
pressed, and it would be very stupid on my part to blink the fact. 
Meantime, the book was rapidly making for itself friends and 
passing into frequent new editions. Even the editor who con- 
demned the work would not assert that those who bought it 
were an aggregation of asses. People cannot be found by 
thousands who will pay a dollar and seventy-five cents for a 
dime novel or a religious tract. I wished to learn the actual 
truth more sincerely than any critic to write it, and at last I 
ventured to take a copy to Mr. George Ripley, of the New 
York “ Tribune.” “ Here is a man,” I thought, “ whose fame 
and position as a critic are recognized by all. If he deigns to 
notice the book, he will not only say what he thinks, but I shall 
have much reason to think as he does.” Mr. Ripley met the 


22 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


diffident author kindly, asked a few questions, and took the 
volume. A few weeks later, to my great surprise, he gave over 
a column to a review of the story. Although not blind to its 
many faults, he wrote words far more friendly and inspiring 
than I ever hoped to see ; it would seem that the public had 
sanctioned his verdict. From that day to this these two in- 
stances have been types of my experience with many critics, 
one condemning, another commending. There is ever a third 
class who prove their superiority by sneering at or ignoring 
what is closely related to the people. Much thought over my 
experience led to a conclusion which the passing years con- 
firm : the only thing for a writer is to be himself and take the 
consequences. Even those who regard me as a literary of- 
fender of the blackest dye have never named imitation among 
my sins. 

As successive books appeared, I began to recognize more 
and more clearly another phase of an author’s experience. A 
writer gradually forms a constituency, certain qualities in his 
book appealing to certain classes of minds. In my own case I 
do not mean classes of people looked at from the social point 
of view. A writer who takes any hold on popular attention in- 
evitably learns the character of his constituency. He appeals, 
and minds and temperaments in sympathy respond. Those he 
cannot touch go on their way indifferently ; those he offends 
may often strike back. This is the natural result of any strong 
assertion of individuality. Certainly, if I had my choice, I 
would rather write a book interesting to the young and to the 
common people, whom Lincoln said “ God must love, since He 
made so many of them.” The former are open to influence; 
the latter can be quickened and prepared for something better. 
As a matter of fact, I find that there are those in all classes 
whom my books attract, others who are repelled, as I have 
said. It is perhaps one of the pleasantest experiences of an 
author’s life to learn from letters and in other ways that he is 
forming a circle of friends, none the less friendly because per- 
sonally unknown. Their loyalty is both a safeguard and an 
inspiration. On one hand, the writer shrinks from abusing 
such regard by careless work ; on the other, he is stimulated 


'A NATIP^E AUTHOR CALLED ROE: 


23 


and encouraged by the feeling that there is a group in waiting 
who will appreciate his best endeavor. While I clearly recog- 
nize my limitations, and have no wish to emulate the frog in the 
fable, I can truthfully say that I take increasing pains with each 
story, aiming to verify every point by experience, — my own or 
that of others. Not long since, a critic asserted that changes 
in one of my characters, resulting from total loss of memory, 
were preposterously impossible. If the critic had consulted 
Ribot’s “ Diseases of Memory,” or some experienced physician, 
he might have written more justly. I do not feel myself com- 
petent to form a valuable opinion as to good art in writing, and 
I cannot help observing that the art-doctors disagree wofully 
among themselves. Truth to nature and the realities, and not 
the following of any school or fashion, has ever seemed the 
safest guide. I sometimes venture to think I know a little 
about human nature. My active life brought me in close con- 
tact with all kinds of people ; there was no man in my regiment 
who hesitated to come to my tent or to talk confidentially by 
the camp-fire, while scores of dying men laid bare to me their 
hearts. I at least know the nature that exists in the human 
breast. It may be inartistic, or my use of it all wrong. That 
is a question which time will decide, and I shall accept the ver- 
dict. Over twelve years ago, certain oracles, with the voice of 
fate, predicted my speedy eclipse and disappearance. Are they 
right in their adverse judgment I can truthfully say that now, 
as at the first, I wish to know the facts in the case. The mo- 
ment an author is conceited about his work, he becomes absurd 
and is passing into a hopeless condition. If worthy to write at 
all, he knows that he falls far short of his ideals ; if honest, he 
wishes to be estimated at his true worth, and to cast behind 
him the mean little Satan of vanity. If he walks under a con- 
scious sense of greatness, he is a ridiculous figure, for behold- 
ers remember the literary giants of other days and of his own 
time, and smile at the airs of the comparatively little man. On 
the other hand, no self-respecting writer should ape the false 
deprecating “ umbleness ” of Uriah Keep. In short, he wishes 
to pass, like a coin, for just what he is worth. Mr. Matthew 
Arnold was ludicrously unjust to the West when he wrote, “ The 


24 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


Western States are at this moment being nourished and formed, 
we hear, on the novels of a native author called Roe.” Why 
could not -Mr. Arnold have taken a few moments to look into 
the bookstores of the great cities of the West, in order to ob- 
serve for himself how the demand of one of the largest and 
most intelligent reading publics in the world is supplied He 
would have found that the works of Scott and Dickens were 
more liberally purchased and generally read than in his own 
land of “distinction.” He should have discovered when in this 
country that American statesmen (?) are so solicitous about the 
intelligence of their constituents that they give publishers so 
disposed every opportunity to steal novels describing the no- 
bility and English persons of distinction ; that tons of such 
novels have been sold annually in the West, a thousand to one 
of the “author called Roe.” The simple truth in the case is 
that in spite of this immense and cheap competition, my novels 
have made their way and are being read among multitudes of 
others. No one buys or reads a book under compulsion ; and 
if any one thinks that the poorer the book the better the chance 
of its being read by the American people, let him try the experi- 
ment. When a critic condemns my books, I accept that as his 
judgment ; when another critic and scores of men and women, 
the peers of the first in cultivation and intelligence, commend 
the books, I do not charge them with gratuitous lying. My 
one aim has become to do my work conscientiously and leave 
the final verdict to time and the public. I wish no other esti- 
mate than a correct one ; and when the public indicate that 
they have had enough of Roe, I shall neither whine nor write. 

As a rule, I certainly stumble on my stories, as well as stumble 
through them perhaps. Some incident or unexpected impulse 
is the beginning of their existence. One October day I was 
walking on a country road, and a chestnut burr lay in my path. 
I said to myself, “ There is a book in that burr, if I could get 
it out.” With little volition on my part, the story “Opening a 
Chestnut Burr ” took form and was written. 

One summer evening, when in New York, I went up to 
Thomas’s Garden, near Central Park, to hear the delicious 
music he was educating us to appreciate. At a certain point 


NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE. 


25 


in the programme I noticed that the next piece would be 
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, and I glanced around with a 
sort of congratulatory impulse, as much as to say, “ Now we 
shall have a treat.” My attention was immediately arrested 
and fixed by a young girl who, with the gentleman escort- 
ing her, was sitting near by. My first impression of her face 
was one of marvellous beauty, followed by a sense of dissat- 
isfaction. Such was my distance that I could not annoy her 
by furtive observation ; and I soon discovered that she would 
regard a stare as a tribute. Why was it that her face was so 
beautiful, yet so displeasing ? Each feature analyzed seemed 
perfection, yet the general effect was a mocking, ill-kept prom- 
ise. The truth was soon apparent. The expression was not 
evil, but frivolous, silly, unredeemed by any genuine womanly 
grace. She giggled and flirted through the sublime symphony, 
till in exasperation I went out into the promenade under the 
open sky. In less than an hour I had my story, “A Face Illu- 
mined.” I imagined an artist seeing what I had seen and feel- 
ing a stronger vexation in the wounding of his beauty-loving 
nature ; that he learned during the evening that the girl was a 
relative of a close friend, and that a sojourn at a summer hotel 
on the Hudson was in prospect. On his return home he con- 
ceives the idea of painting the girl’s features and giving them 
a harmonious expression. Then the fancy takes him that the 
girl is a modern Undine and has not yet received her woman’s 
soul. The story relates his effort to beautify, illumine the face 
itself by evoking a mind. I never learned who was the actual 
girl with the features of an angel and the face of a fool. 

In the case of “He Fell in Love with his Wife,” I merely 
saw a paragraph in a paper to the effect that a middle-aged 
widower, having found it next to impossible to carry on his 
farm with hired help, had gone to the county poor-house and 
said, “If there’s a decent woman here. I’ll marry her.” For 
years the homely item remained an ungerminating seed in my 
mind, then started to grow, and the story was written in two 
months. 

My war experience has naturally made the picturesque phases 
of the Great Conflict attractive material. In the future I hope 


26 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


to avail myself still further of interesting periods in American 
history. 

I find that my love of horticulture and out-door life has grown 
with the years. I do not pretend to scientific accuracy or knowl- 
edge. On the contrary, I have regarded plants and birds rather 
as neighbors, and have associated with them. When giving up 
my parish, I bought a place in the near vicinity of the house 
in which I had spent my childhood. The front windows of our 
house command a noble view of the Hudson, while on the east 
and south the Highlands are within rifle-shot. For several years 
I hesitated to trust solely to literary work for support. As I 
have said, not a few critics insisted that my books should not 
be read, and would soon cease to be read. But whether the pre- 
diction should prove true or not, I knew in any case that the 
critics themselves would eat my strawberries ; so I made the 
culture of small fruits the second string to my bow. This busi- 
ness speedily took the form of growing plants for sale, and was 
developing rapidly, when financial misfortune led to my failure 
and the devotion of my entire time to writing. Perhaps it was 
just as well in the end, for my health was being undermined by 
too great and conflicting demands on my energy. In 1878, at 
Dr. Holland’s request, I wrote a series of papers on small fruits, 
for “Scribner’s Magazine,” — papers that were expanded into a 
book entitled “Success with Small Fruits.” I now aim merely 
at an abundant home supply of fruits and vegetables, but in se- 
curing this, find pleasure and profit in testing the many varieties 
catalogued and offered by nurserymen and seedsmen. About 
three years ago the editor of “ Harper’s Magazine ” asked me 
to write one or two papers entitled “ One Acre,” telling its pos- 
sessor how to make the most and best of it. When entering on 
the task, I found there was more in it than I had at first sup- 
posed. Changing the title to “The Home Acre,” I decided to 
write a book or manual which might be useful in many rural 
homes. There are those who have neither time nor inclination 
to read the volumes and journals devoted to horticulture, who 
yet have gardens and trees in which they are interested. Thev 
wish to learn in the shortest, clearest way just wKat to do in 
order to secure success, without going into theories, whys, and 


NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE.' 


27 


wherefores, or concerning themselves with the higher mysteries 
of garden-lore. This work is now in course of preparation. In 
brief, my aim is to have the book grow out of actual experience, 
and not merely my own, either. As far as possible, well-known 
experts and authorities are consulted on every point. As a natu- 
ral consequence, the book is growing, like the plants to which it 
relates. It cannot be written “off-hand” or finished “on time ” 
to suit any one except Dame Nature, who, being feminine, is 
often inscrutable and apparently capricious. The experience of 
one season is often reversed in the next, and the guide in gar- 
dening of whom I am most afraid is the man who is always sure 
he is right. It was my privilege to have the late Mr. Charles 
Downing as one of my teachers, and well do I remember how 
that honest, sagacious, yet docile student of nature would “put 
on the brakes ” when I was passing too rapidly to conclusions. 
It has always been one of my most cherished purposes to inter- 
est people in the cultivation of the soil and rural life. My effort 
is to “ boil down ” information to the simplest and most prac- 
tical form. Last spring, hundreds of varieties of vegetables and 
small fruits were planted. A carefully-written record is being 
kept from the time of planting until the crop is gathered. 

My methods of work are briefly these : I go into my study 
immediately after breakfast — usually about nine o’clock — and 
write or study until three or four in the afternoon, stopping 
only for a light lunch. In the early morning and late after- 
noon I go around my place, giving directions to the men, and 
observing the condition of vegetables, flowers, and trees, and 
the general aspect of nature at the time. After dinner, the even- 
ing is devoted to the family, friends, newspapers, and light read- 
ing. In former years I wrote at night, but after a severe attack 
of in'somnia this practice was almost wholly abandoned. As a 
rule, the greater part of a year is absorbed in the production of 
a novel, and I am often gathering material for several years in 
advance of writing. 

For manuscript purposes I use bound blank-books of cheap 
paper. My sheets are thus kept securely together and in place, 
— important considerations in view of the gales often blowing 
through my study, and the habits of a careless man, This 


28 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIED. 


method offers peculiar advantages for interpolation, as there 
is always a blank page opposite the one on which I am writing. 
After correcting the manuscript, it is put in type-writing and 
again revised. There are also two revisions of the proof. 
While I do not shirk the tasks which approach closely to 
drudgery, especially since my eyesight is not so good as it 
was, I also obtain expert assistance. I find that when a page 
has become very familiar and I am rather tired of it, my mind 
wanders from the close, fixed attention essential to the best use 
of words. Perhaps few are endowed with both the inventive 
and the critical faculty. A certain inner sense enables one to 
know, according to his lights, whether the story itself is true or 
false ; but elegance of style is due chiefly to training, to a culti- 
vation like that of the ear for music. Possibly we are entering 
on an age in which the people care less for form, for phrase- 
ology, than for what seems to them true, real, — for what, as 
they would express it, “takes hold of them.” This is no plea or 
excuse for careless work, but rather a suggestion that the day 
of prolix, fine, flowery writing is passing. The immense num- 
ber of well-written books in circulation has made success with 
careless, slovenly manuscripts impossible. Publishers and edi- 
tors will not even read, much less publish them. Simplicity, 
lucidity, strength, a plunge in medias res, are now the qualities 
and conditions chiefly desired, rather than finely-turned sen- 
tences in which it is apparent more labor has been expended 
on the vehicle than on what it contains. The questions of this 
eager age are, What has he to say ? Does it interest us As 
an author, I have felt that my only chance of gaining and keep- 
ing the attention of men and women was to know, to understand 
them, to feel with and for them in what constituted their life. 
Failing to do this, why should a line of my books be read ? 
VVho reads a modern novel from sense of duty 1 There are 
classics which all must read and pretend to enjoy whether 
capable of doing so or not. No critic has ever been so daft 
as to call any of my books a classic. Better books are unread 
because the writer is not en rapport with the reader. The time 
has passed when either the theologian, the politician, or the 
critic can take the American citizen metaphorically by the 


NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROET 


29 


shoulder and send him along the path in which they think he 
should go. He has become the most independent being in 
the world, good-humoredly tolerant of the beliefs and fancies 
of others, while reserving, as a matter of course, the right 
to think for himself. 

In appealing to the intelligent American public, choosing for 
itself among the multitude of books now offered, it is my creed 
that an author should maintain completely and thoroughly his 
own individuality, and take the consequences. He cannot con- 
jure strongly by imitating any one, or by representing any school 
or fashion. He must do his work conscientiously, for his read- 
ers know by instinct whether or not they are treated seriously 
and with respect. Above all, he must understand men and 
women sufficiently to interest them ; for all the “ powers that 
be ” cannot compel them to read a book they do not like. 

My early experience in respect to my books in the British 
Dominions has been similar to that of many others. My first 
stories were taken by one or more publishers without saying 
“ by your leave,” and no returns made of any kind. As time 
passed, Messrs. Ward, Locke & Co., more than any other house, 
showed a disposition to treat me fairly. Increasing sums were 
given for successive books. Recently Mr. George Locke visited 
me, and offered liberal compensation for each new novel. He 
also agreed to give me five per cent copyright on all my old 
books published by him, no matter how obtained, in some in- 
stances revoking agreements which precluded the making of 
any such request on my part. In the case of many of these 
books he has no protection, for they are published by others ; 
but he takes the simple ground that he will not sell any of my 
books without giving me a share in the profit. Such honorable 
action should tend to make piracy more odious than ever, on 
both sides of the sea. Other English firms have offered me 
the usual royalty, and I now believe that in spite of our House of 
Mis-Representatives at Washington, the majority of the British 
publishers are disposed to deal justly and honorably by Amer- 
ican writers. In my opinion, the Lower House in Congress has 
libelled and slandered the American people by acting as if their 
constituents, with thievish instincts, chqckled over pennies saved 


30 TAKEX ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


when buying pirated books. This great, rich, prosperous nation 
has been made a “ fence,” a receiver of stolen goods, and shame- 
lessly committed to the crime for which poor wretches are sent 
to jail. Truly, when history is written, and it is learned that 
the whole power and statesmanship of the government were en- 
listed in behalf of the pork interest, while the literature of the 
country and the literary class were contemptuously ignored, 
it may be that the present period will become known as the 
Pork Era of the Republic. It is a strange fact that English 
publishers are recognizing our rights in advance of our own 
law-makers. 

In relating his experience in the pages of this magazine, Mr. 
Julian Hawthorne said in effect that one of the best rewards of 
the literary life was the friends it enabled the writer to make. 
When giving me his friendship, he proved how true this is. 
In my experience the literary class make good, genial, honest 
friends, while their keen, alert minds and knowledge of life in 
many of its most interesting aspects give an unfailing charm to 
their society. One can maintain the most cordial and intimate 
relations with editors of magazines and journals if he will re- 
cognize that such relations should have no influence whatever 
in the acceptance or declination of manuscripts. I am con- 
stantly receiving letters from literary aspirants who appear to 
think that if I will use a little influence, their stories or papers 
would be taken and paid for. I have no such influence, nor 
do I wish any, in regard to my own work. The conscientious 
editor’s first duty is to his periodical and its constituents, and 
he would and should be more scrupulous in accepting a manu- 
script from a friend than from a stranger. To show resentment 
because a manuscript is returned is absurd, however great may 
be our disappointment. 

Perhaps one of the most perplexing and often painful expe- 
riences of an author comes from the appeals of those who hope 
through him to obtain immediate recognition as writers. One 
is asked to read manuscripts and commend them to publishers, 
or at least to give an opinion in regard to them, often to revise 
or even to rewrite certain portions. I remember that during 
one month I was asked to do work on the manuscripts of 3 tran- 


'A NA'nVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE: 


31 

gers that would require about a year of my time. The maker 
of such request does not realize that he or she is but one 
among many, and that the poor author would have to abandon 
all hope of supporting his family if he tried to comply. The 
majority who thus appeal to one know next to nothing of the 
literary life or the conditions of success. They write to the au- 
thor in perfect good faith, often relating circumstances which 
touch his sympathies ; yet if you tell them the truth about their 
manuscript, or say you have not time to read it, adding that 
you have no influence with editors or publishers beyond secur- 
ing a careful examination of what is written, you feel that you 
are often set down as a churl, and your inability to comply 
with their wishes is regarded as the selfishness and arrogance 
of success. The worried author has also his own compunc- 
tions, for while he has tried so often and vainly to secure the 
recognition requested, till he is in despair of such effort, he 
still is haunted by the fear that he may overlook some genius 
whom it would be a delight to guide through what seems a 
thorny jungle to the inexperienced. 

In recalling the past, one remembers when he stood in such 
sore need of friends that he dislikes even the appearance of 
passing by on the other side. There are no riches in the world 
like stanch friends v/ho prove themselves to be such in your 
need, your adversity, or your weakness. I have some treas- 
ured letters received after it had been telegraphed throughout 
the land that I was a bankrupt and had found myself many 
thousands of dollars worse off than nothing. The kindly words 
and looks, the cordial grasp of the hand, and the temporary 
loan occasionally, of those who stood by me when scarcely 
sane from overwork, trouble, and, worse than all, from insom- 
nia, can never be forgotten while a trace of memory is left. 
Soon after my insolvency there came a date when all my in- 
terests in my books then published must be sold to the highest 
bidder. It seemed in a sense like putting my children up at 
auction ; and yet I was powerless, since my interests under 
contracts were a part of my assets. These rights had been 
well advertised in the New York and county papers, as the 
statute required, and the popularity of the books was well 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


32 

known. Any one in the land could have purchased these 
books from me forever. A friend made the highest bid and 
secured the property. My rights in my first nine novels be- 
came his, legally and absolutely. There was even no verbal 
agreement between us, — nothing but his kind, honest eyes to 
reassure me. He not only paid the sum he had bidden, but 
then and there wrote a check for a sum which, with my other 
assets, immediately liquidated my personal debts, principal and 
interest. The children of my fancy are again my children, for 
they speedily earned enough to repay my friend and to enable 
him to compromise with the holders of indorsed notes in a way 
satisfactory to them. It so happened that most of these creditors 
resided in my immediate neighborhood. I determined to fight 
out the battle in their midst and under their daily observation, 
and to treat all alike, without regard to their legal claims. 
Only one creditor tried to make life a burden ; but he did his 
level best. The others permitted me to meet my obligations 
in my own time and way, and I am grateful for their considera- 
tion. When all had received the sum mutually agreed upon, 
and I had shaken hands with them, I went to the quaint and 
quiet little city of Santa Barbara, on the Pacific coast, for a 
change and partial rest. While there, however, I wrote my 
Charleston story, “ The Earth Trembled.” In September, 
1887, I returned to my home at Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, and 
resumed my work in a region made dear by ihe memories of a 
lifetime. Just now I am completing a Southern story entitled 
“ Miss Lou.” 

It so happens in my experience that I have discovered one 
who appears willing to stick closer to me than a brother, and 
even to pass as my “double,” or else he is so helplessly in the 
hands of his publishers as to be an object of pity. A certain 
“ Edward R. Roe ” is also an author, and is suffering cruelly 
in reputation because his publishers so manage that he is iden- 
tified with me. By strange coincidence, they hit upon a cover 
for his book which is almost a fac-simile of the cover of my 
pamphlet novel, “ Aa Original Belle,” previously issued. The 
R in the name of this unfortunate man has been furnished with 
guch a diminutive tail that it passes for a P, and ^ven my 


'A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE. 


33 


friends supposed that the book, offered everywhere for sale, 
was mine. In many instances I have asked at news-stands, 
“ Whose book is that ? ” The prompt and invariable answer 
has been, “E. P. Roe’s.” I have seen book-notices in which 
the volume was ascribed to me in anything but flattering terms. 
A distinguished judge, in a carefully-written opinion, is so un- 
charitable as to characterize the coincidence in cover as a 
“fraud,” and to say, “ No one can look at the covers of the two 
publications and fail to see evidence of a design to deceive the 
public and to infringe upon the rights of the publisher and 
author,” — that is, the rights of Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co. and 
of E. P. Roe. Some well-known journalists show honest indig- 
nation, and also employ the terms “fraud” and “trading on 
another man’s reputation ; ” others condescend to explain, to 
state the case ; and others still, with coruscations of wit, point 
out that one Roe is as bad as the other, and so it does n’t 
matter much. Now, all this places the said “ Edward R. Roe” 
in a pitiable plight. He is either regarded as the victim, per- 
haps the accomplice of his publishers, or else is identified with 
a “native author called Roe.” My publishers, Messrs. Dodd, 
Mead & Co., with their lawyers, are coming to his aid in a suit 
to enjoin the publication in its present guise of the book which 
is perilling his reputation, if not mine. Let me suggest to the 
Western Roe that he find publishers who will permit him to 
shine undimmed by the shadows cast by my literary sins. 

Let me close with yet one more bit of experience. My 
books from the first have been substantially in the hands of 
one publishing-house. I believe that it has been to my advan- 
tage ; and it would be well, as a rule, for other writers to begin 
with reputable, honorable publishers and to remain with them. 
A publisher can do more and better with a line of books than 
with isolated volumes. When an author’s books are scattered, 
there is not sufficient inducement for any one to push them 
strongly, nor, as in the case above related, to protect a writer 
against a “double,” should one appear. Authors often know 
little about business, and should deal with a publisher who will 
look after their interests as truly as his own. Unbusiness-like 
habits and methods are certainly not traits to be cultivated, for 

3 


34 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


we often suffer grievously from their existence ; yet as far as 
possible the author should be free from distracting cares. The 
novelist does his best work when abstracted from the actual 
world and living in its ideal counterpart which for the time he 
is imagining. When his creative work is completed, he should 
live very close to the real world, or else he will be imagining a 
state of things which neither God nor man had any hand in 
bringing about. 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


CHAPTER I. 

SOMETHING BEFORE UNKNOWN. 

^LARA HEYWARD was dressed in deep mourning, and 
it was evident that the emblems of bereavement were 
not worn merely in compliance with a social custom. Her 
face was pallid from grief, and her dark beautiful eyes were 
dim from much weeping. She sat in the little parlor of a 
cottage located in a large Californian city, and listened with 
apathetic expression as a young man pleaded for the great- 
est and most sacred gift that a woman can bestow. Ralph 
Brandt was a fine type of young vigorous manhood ; and we 
might easily fancy that his strong, resolute face, now elo- 
quent with deep feeling, was not one upon which a girl 
could look with indifference. Clara’s words, however, re- 
vealed the apparent hopelessness of his suit. 

‘‘ It ’s of no use, Ralph,” she said ; I ’m in no mood for 
such thoughts.” 

You don’t believe in me ; you don’t trust me,” he re- 
sumed sadly. “You think that because I was once wild, 
and even worse, that I ’ll not' be true to my promises and 
live an honest life. Have I not been honest when I knew 
that being so might cost me dear? Have I not told you 
of my past life and future purposes when I might have con- 
cealed almost everything? ” 


36 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ It ’s not that, Ralph. I do believe you are sincere ; and 
if the dreadful thing which has broken me down with sor- 
row had not happened, all might have been as you wish. I 
should have quite as much confidence in a young man who, 
like you, has seen evil and turned resolutely away from it, 
as in one who did n’t know much about the world or himself 
either. What ’s more, father — ” 

At the word father ” her listless manner vanished, and 
she gave way to passionate sobs. ‘‘ His foul murder is 
always before me,” she wailed. “ Oh, we were so happy ! 
he was so kind, and made me his companion ! I don’t see 
how I can live without him. I can’t think of love and mar- 
riage when I remember how he died, and that the villain 
who killed him is at large and unpunished. What right 
have I to forget this great wrong and to try to be hapjy? 
No, no ! the knife that killed him pierced my heart ; and 
it ’s bleeding all the time. I ’m not fit to be any man’s 
wife ; and I will not bring my great sorrow into any man’s 
home.” 

Brandt sprang up and paced the room for a few moments, 
his brow contracted in deep thought. Then, apparently 
coming to a decision, he sat down by his companion and 
took her cold, unresisting hand. 

My poor little girl,” he said kindly, you don’t half un- 
derstand me yet. I love you all the more because you are 
heart-broken and pale with grief. That is the reason I have 
spoken so earnestly to-night. You will grieve yourself to 
death if left alone ; and what good would your death do 
any one? It would spoil my life. Believe me, I would 
welcome you to my home with all your sorrow, — all the 
more because of your sorrow ; and I ’d be so kind and pa- 
tient that you ’d begin to smile again some day. That ’s 
what your father would wish if he could speak to you, and 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


37 


not that you should grieve away your life for what can’t be 
helped now. But I have a plan. It ’s right in my line to 
capture such scoundrels as the man who murdered your 
father ; and what ’s more, I know the man, or rather I used to 
in old times. I ’ve played many a game of euchre with him 
in which he cheated me out of money that I ’d be glad to 
have now ; and I ’m satisfied that he does not know of any 
change in me. I was away on distant detective duty, you 
know, when your father was killed. I won’t ask you to go 
over the painful circumstances ; I can learn them at the 
prison. I shall try to get permission to search out Bute, 
desperate and dangerous as he is — - ” 

Oh, Ralph, Ralph,” cried the girl, springing up, her eyes 
flashing through her tears, “ if you will bring my father’s 
murderer to justice, if you will prevent him from destroy- 
ing other lives, as he surely will, you will find that I can 
refuse you nothing.” 

Then she paused, shook her head sadly, and withdrew the 
hand she had given him. “No,” she resumed, “I shouldn’t 
ask this ; I don’t ask it. As you say, he is desperate and 
dangerous ; and he would take your life the moment he 
dreamed of your purpose. I should only have another 
cause for sorrow.” • 

Brandt now smiled as if he were master of the situation. 
“Why, Clara,” he exclaimed, “don’t you know that run- 
ning down and capturing desperadoes is now , part of my 
business? ” 

“ Yes ; but you can get plenty of work that is n’t so 
dangerous.” 

“ I should be a nice fellow to ask you to be my wife and 
yet show I was afraid to arrest your father’s murderer. You 
need n’t ask me to do this ; you are not going to be respon- 
sible for my course in the least. I shall begin operations 


38 


TAKEN ALIVE AND OTHER STORIES. 


this very night, and have no doubt that I can get a chance 
to work on the case. Now don’t burden your heart with 
any thoughts about my danger. I myself owe Bute as big 
a grudge as I can have against any human being. He 
cheated me and led me into deviltry years ago, and then I 
lost sight of him until he was brought to the prison of which 
your father was one of the keepers. I ’ve been absent for 
the last three months, you know ; but I did n’t forget you or 
your father a day, and you remember I wrote you as soon as 
I heard of your trouble. I think your father sort of believed 
in me ; he never made me feel I was n’t fit to see you or 
to be with you, and I ’d do more for him living or dead 
than for any other man.” 

‘‘ He did believe in you, Ralph, and he always spoke well 
of you. Oh, you can’t know how much I lost in him ! 
After mother died he did not leave me to the care of stran- 
gers, but gave me most of his time when off duty. He sent 
me to the best schools, bought me books to read, and took 
me out evenings instead of going off by himself as so many 
men do. He was so kind and so brave ; oh, oh ! you 
know he lost his life by trying to do his duty when another 
man would have given up. Bute and two others broke 
jail. .Father saw one of his assistants stabbed, and he was 
knocked down himself. He might have remained quiet and 
escaped with a few bruises ; but he caught Bute’s foot, and 
then the wr||^h turned and stabbed him. He told me all 
with his poor pale lips before he died. Oh, oh ! when shall 
I forget? ” 

“ You can never forget, dear ; I don’t ask anything con- 
trary to nature. You were a good daughter,'and so I believe 
you will be a good wife. But if I bring the murderer to 
justice, you will feel that a great wrong has been righted, — 
that all has been done that can be done. Then you ’ll 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


39 


begin to think that your father would n’t wish you to grieve 
yourself to death, and that as he tried to make you happy 
while he was living, so he will wish you to be happy now 
he ’s gone.” 

“ It is n’t a question of happiness. I don’t feel as if I 
could ever be happy again ; and so I don’t see how I can 
make you or any one else happy.” 

That ’s my look-out, Clara. I ’d be only too glad to 
take you as you are. Come, now, this is December. If I 
bring Bute in by Christmas, what will you give me? ” 

She silently and eloquently gave him her hand ; but her 
lips quivered so she could not speak. He kissed her hand 
as gallantly as any olden-time knight, then added a little 
brusquely, — 

‘‘ See here, little girl, I ’m not going to bind you by 
anything that looks like a bargain. I shall attempt all 
I ’ve said ; and then on Christmas, or whenever I get back, 
I ’ll speak my heart to you again just as I have spoken 
now.” 

When a man acts as you do, Ralph, any girl would find 
it hard to keep free. I shall follow you night and day with 
my thoughts and prayers.” 

Well, I ’m superstitious enough to believe that I shall 
be safer and more successful on account of them. Clara, 
look me in the eyes before I go.” 

She looked up to his clear gray eyes as requ^ed. 

I don’t ask you to forget one who is dea“ but don’t 
you see how much you are to one who is living? Don’t you 
see that in spite of all your sorrow you can still give happi- 
ness? Now, be as generous and kind as you can. Don’t 
grieve hopelessly while I ’m gone. That ’s what is killing 
you ; and the thought of it fills me with dread. Try to think 
that you still have something and some one to live for. Per- 


40 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


haps you can learn to love me a little if you try, and then 
everything won’t look so black. If you find you can’t love 
me, I won’t blame you ; and if I lose you as my wife, you 
won’t lose a true, honest friend.” 

For the first - time the girl became vaguely conscious of 
the possibility of an affection, a tie superseding all others ; 
she began to see how it was possible to give herself to this 
man, not from an impulse of gratitude or because she liked 
him better than any one else, but because of a feeling, new, 
mysterious, which gave him a sort of divine right in her. 
Something in the expression of his eyes had been more 
potent than his words ; something subtle, swift as an elec- 
tric spark had passed from him to her, awakening a faint, 
strange tumult in the heart she thought so utterly crushed. 
A few moments before, she could have promised resolutely 
to be his wife ; she could have permitted his embrace with 
•unresponsive apathy. Now she felt a sudden shyness. A 
faint color stole into her pale face, and she longed to be 
alone. 

Ralph,” she faltered, you are so generous, I — I don’t 
know what to say.” 

You need n’t say anything till I come back. If possible, 
I will be here by Christmas, for you should n’t be alone that 
day with your grief. Good-by.” 

The hand she gave him trembled, and her face was averted 
now. 

‘‘You willtry to love me a little, won’t you? ” 

“ Yes,” she whispered. 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


41 


CHAPTER 11. 

A VISITOR AT THE MINE. 

T) ALPH BRANDT was admirably fitted for the task he 
had undertaken. With fearlessness he united imperturb- 
able coolness and unwearied patience in pursuit of an object. 
Few knew him in his character of detective, and no one 
would have singled him out as an expert in his calling. 
The more difficult and dangerous the work, the more care- 
less and indifferent his manner, giving the impression to 
superficial observers of being the very last person to be 
intrusted with responsible duty. But his chief and others 
on the force well knew that beneath Brandt’s careless de- 
meanor was concealed the relentless pertinacity of a blood- 
hound on track of its victim. With the trait of dogged 
pursuit all resemblance to the blood-thirsty animal ceased, 
and even the worst of criminals found him kind-hearted 
and good-natured after they were within his power. Fail- 
ure was an idea not to be entertained. If the man to be 
caught existed, he could certainly be found, was the principle 
on which our officer acted. 

He readily obtained permission to attempt the capture of 
the escaped prisoner, Bute ; but the murderer had disap- 
peared, leaving no clew. Brandt learned that the slums of 
large cities and several mining camps had been searched 
in vain, also that the trains running east had been carefully 
watched. We need not try to follow his processes of thought, 
nor seek to learn how he soon came to the conclusion that 
his man was at some distant mining station working under 
an assumed name. By a kind of instinct his mind kept 


42 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


reverting to one of these stations with increasing frequency. 
It was not so remote in respect to mere distance'; but it 
was isolated, off the lines of travel, with a gap of seventy 
miles between it and what might be termed civilization, and 
was suspected of being a sort of refuge for hard characters 
and fugitives from justice. Bute, when last seen, was mak- 
ing for the mountains in the direction of this mine. In- 
vested with ample authority to bring in the outlaw dead or 
alive, Brandt followed this vague clew. 

One afternoon Mr. Alford, the superintendent of the 
mine, was informed that a man wished to see him. There 
was ushered into his private office an elderly gentleman 
who appeared as if he might be a prospecting capitalist or 
one of the owners of the mine. The superintendent was 
kept in doubt as to the character of the visitor for a few 
moments while Brandt sought by general remarks and lead- 
ing questions to learn the disposition of the man who 
must, from the necessities of the case, become to some ex- 
tent his ally in securing the ends of justice. Apparently 
the detective was satisfied, for he asked suddenly, — 

By the way, have you a man in your employ by the 
name of Bute? ” 

No, sir,” replied Mr. Alford, with a little surprise. 

‘‘ Have you a man, then, who answers to the following 
description?” He gave a brief word photograph of the 
criminal. 

‘‘You want this man? ” Mr. Alford asked in a low voice. 

“ Yes.” 

“Well, really, sir, I would like to know your motive, 
indeed, ]» may add, your authority, for — ” 

“There it is,” Brandt smilingly remarked, handing the 
superintendent a paper. 

“ Oh certainly, certainly,” said Mr. Alford, after a mo- 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


43 


ment. “ This is all right ; and I am bound to do nothing 
to obstruct you in the performance of your duty.” He now 
carefully closed the door and added, “ What do you want 
this man for?” 

It ’s a case of murder.” 

“ Phew ! Apparently he is one of the best men on the 
force.” 

“ Only apparently; I know him well.” 

Mr. Alford’s brow clouded with anxiety, and after a mo- 
ment he said, “Mr. — how shall I address you?” 

“You had better continue to call me by the name under 
which I was introduced, — Brown.” 

“ Well, Mr. Brown, you have a very difficult and hazard- 
ous task, and you must be careful how you involve me in 
your actions. I shall not lay a straw in your way, but I 
cannot openly help you. It is difficult for me to get labor 
here at best ; and it is understood that I ask no questions 
and deal with men on the basis simply of their relations to 
me. As long as I act on this understanding, I can keep 
public sentiment with me and enforce some degree of 
discipline. If it were known that I was aiding or abetting 
you in the enterprise you have in hand, my life would not 
be worth a rush. There are plenty in camp who would 
shoot me, just as they would you should they learn of your 
design. I fear you do not realize what you are attempting. 
A man like yourself, elderly and alone, has no better chance 
of taking such a fellow as you describe Bute to be, than of 
carrying a ton of ore on his back down the mountain. In 
all sincerity, sir, I must advise you to depart quietly and 
expeditiously, and give no one besides myself a hint of your 
errand.” 

“ Will you please step into the outer office and make 
sure that no one is within ear-shot,” said Brandt, quietly. 


44 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

When Mr. Alford returned, the elderly man apparently 
had disappeared, and a smiling smooth-faced young fellow 
with short brown hair sat in his place. His host stared, 
the transformation was so great. 

“ Mr. Alford,” said the detective, ‘‘ I understand my 
business and the risks it involves. All I ask of you is that 
I may not be interfered with so far as you are concerned ; 
and my chief object in calling is to prevent your being sur- 
prised by anything you may see or hear. About three 
miles or thereabouts from here, on the road running east, 
there is a fellow who keeps a tavern. Do you know him? ” 

“ I know no good of him. He ’s the worst nuisance 
I have to contend with, for he keeps some of my men 
disabled much of the time.” 

‘‘Well, I knew Bute years ago, and I can make him 
think I am now what I was then, only worse ; and I will in- 
duce him to go with me to raid that tavern. If this plan 
fails, I shall try another, for I am either going to take Bute 
alive or else get ample proof that he is dead. There may be 
some queer goings-on before I leave, and all I ask is that 
you will neither interfere nor investigate. You may be as 
ignorant and non-committal as you please. I shall report 
progress to you, however, and may need your testimony, 
but will see to it that it is given by you as one who had 
nothing to do with the affair. Now please show me your 
quarters, so that I can find you at night if need be ; also 
Bute’s sleeping-place and the lay of the land to some ex- 
tent. You ’ll find that I can take everything in mighty 
quick. See, I ’m the elderly gentleman again,” and he 
resumed his disguise with marvellous celerity. 

Mr. Alford led the way through the outer office ; and the 
two clerks writing there saw nothing to awaken the slightest 
suspicion. The superintendent’s cottage stood on the road 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


45 


leading to the mine and somewhat apart from the other 
buildings. On the opposite side of the highway was a 
thicket of pines which promised cover until one plunged 
into the unbroken forest that covered the mountain-side. 

Brandt observed this, and remarked, I Ve studied the 
approaches to your place a little as I came along ; but I 
suppose I shall have to give a day or two more to the work 
before making my attempt.” 

“ Well,” rejoined Mr. Alford, who was of rather a social 
turn and felt the isolation of his life, “why not be my 
guest for a time ? I ’ll take the risk if you will remain 
incog., and keep aloof from the men.” 

“ That I should do in any event till ready to act. Thank 
you for your kindness, for it may simplify my task very 
much. I will see to it that I do not compromise you. 
When I ’m ready to snare my bird, you can dismiss me a 
little ostentatiously for New York.” 

Brandt’s horse was now ordered to the stable. The two 
men entered the cottage, and soon afterwards visited the dif- 
ferent points of interest, Mr. Alford giving the natural im- 
pression that he was showing an interested stranger the 
appliances for working the mine. At one point he remarked 
in a low tone, “ That ’s Bute’s lodging-place. A half-breed, 
named Apache Jack, who speaks little English lives with him.” 

Brandt’s seemingly careless and transitory glance rested 
on a little shanty and noted that it was separated from 
others of its class by a considerable interval. 

“ Bute, you say, is on the day-shift.” 

“ Yes, he won’t be up till six o’clock.” 

“ I ’ll manage to see him then without his knowing it.” 

“ Be careful. I take my risk on the ground of your good 
faith and prudence.” 

“ Don’t fear.” 


46 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


CHAPTER III. 

THWARTED. 

TDRANDT maintained his disguise admirably. His pres- 
ence caused little comment, and he was spoken of as 
a visiting stockholder of the mine. During his walk with 
Mr. Alford he appeared interested only in machinery, ores, 
etc., but his trained eyes made a topographical map of sur- 
roundings, and everything centred about Bute’s shanty. In 
the evening he amply returned his host’s hospitality by 
comic and tragic stories of criminal life. The next day he 
began to lay his plans carefully, and disappeared soon after 
breakfast with the ostensible purpose of climbing a height 
at some distance for the sake of the prospect. He soon 
doubled round, noting every covert approach to Bute’s 
lodgings. His eye and ear were as quick as an Indian’s ; 
but he still maintained, in case he was observed, the 
manner of an elderly stranger strolling about to view the 
region. 

By noon he felt that he had the immediate locality by 
heart. His afternoon task was to explore the possibilities 
of a stream that crossed the mine road something over a 
mile away, and for this purpose he mounted his horse. He 
soon reached the shallow ford, and saw that the water was ' 
backed up for a considerable distance, and that the shallows 
certainly extended around a high, jutting rock which hid the 
stream from that point and beyond from the road. The 
bed appeared smooth, firm, and sandy, and he waded his 
horse up the gentle current until he was concealed from the 
highway. A place, however, was soon reached where the 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


47 


water came tumbling down over impassable rocks ; and he 
was compelled to ascend the wooded shore. This he did 
on the side nearest to the mine house, and found that with 
care he could lead his horse to a point that could not be, he 
thought, over half a mile from the superintendent’s cottage. 
Here there was a little dell around which the pines grew so 
darkly and thickly that he determined to make it his covert 
should he fail in his first attempt. His object now was to 
see if his estimate of proximity to the mine was correct ; and 
leaving his horse, he pushed up the mountain-side. At 
last he reached a precipitous ledge. Skirting this a short 
distance, he found a place of comparatively easy ascent, and 
soon learned with much satisfaction that he was not over 
two hundred yards from the thicket opposite Mr. Alford’s 
quarters. These discoveries all favored possible future op- 
erations ; and he retraced his steps, marking his returning 
path by bits of white paper, held in place by stones against 
the high, prevailing winds. Near the spot where he had 
left his horse he found a nook among the rocks in which a 
fire would be well hidden. Having marked the place care- 
fully with his eye and obtained his bearings, he led his 
horse back to the stream and reached the unfrequented 
road again without being observed. 

His next task was to discover some kind of a passage-way 
from the mine road to a point on the main highway, leading 
to the west and out of the mountains. He found no better 
resource than to strike directly into the forest and travel by 
points of the compass. Fortunately the trees were lofty and 
comparatively open, and he encountered no worse difficulties 
than some steep and rugged descents, and at last emerged 
on the post road at least a mile to the west of the tavern, 
which stood near its intersection with the mine road. Re- 
turning, he again marked out a path with paper as he had 


48 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

before. The sun was now low in the sky ; and as he trotted 
toward the mine, he had but one more precaution to take, 
and that was to find a place where the trees were sufficiently 
open to permit him to ride into their shade at night in case 
he wished to avoid parties upon the road. Having indi- 
cated two or three such spots by a single bit of paper that 
would glimmer in the moonlight, he joined Mr. Alford at 
supper, feeling that his preparations were nearly complete. 
When they were alone, he told his host that it would be best 
not to gratify his curiosity, for then he could honestly say 
that he knew nothing of any detective’s plans or where- 
abouts. 

“ I cannot help feeling,” said Mr. Alford, *^that you are 
playing with fire over a powder magazine. Now that I know 
you better, I hate to think of the risk that you are taking. 
It has troubled me terribly all day. I feel as if we were on 
the eve of a tragedy. You had better leave quietly in the 
morning and bring a force later that would make resistance 
impossible, or else give it up altogether. Why should you 
throw away your life ? I tell you again that if the men get 
a hint of your character or purpose they will hunt you to 
death.” 

“ It ’s a part of my business to incur such risks,” replied 
Brandt, quietly. “ Besides, I have a motive in this case 
which would lead me to take a man out of the jaws of 
hell.” 

That ’s what you may find you are attempting here. 
Well, we ’re in for it now, I suppose, since you are so deter- 
mined.” 

“ I don’t think you will appear involved in the affair at 
all. In the morning you give me a sack of grain for my 
horse and some provisions for myself, and then bid farewell 
to Mr. Brown in the most open and natural manner possible. 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


49 


You may not see me again. It is possible I may have to 
borrow a horse of you if my scheme to-night don’t work. 
It will be returned or paid for very soon.” 

‘‘ Bute has a pony. He brought it with him, and he and 
Apache Jack between them manage to keep it. They stable 
it nights in a little shed back of their shanty.” 

I had discovered this, and hope to take the man away 
on his pony. I understand why Bute keeps the animal. 
He knew that he might have to travel suddenly and fast.” 

The next morning Mr. Alford parted with Brandt as had 
been arranged, the latter starting ostensibly for the nearest 
railway station. All day long the superintendent was ner- 
vous and anxious ; but he saw no evidences of suspicion or 
uneasiness among those in his employ. 

Brandt rode at a sharp canter as long as he was in sight, 
and then approached the stream slowly and warily. When 
satisfied that he was unobserved, he again passed up its 
shallow bed around the concealing rock, and sought his 
hiding-place on the mountain-side. Aware that the com- 
ing nights might require ceaseless activity, his first measure 
was to secure a few hours of sound sleep ; and he had so 
trained himself that he could, as it were, store up rest against 
long and trying emergencies. The rocks sheltered him 
against the wind, and a fire gave all the comfort his hardy 
frame required, as he reposed on his couch of pine-needles. 
Early in the afternoon he fed his horse, took a hearty meal 
himself, and concealed the remaining store so that no wild 
creatures could get at it. At early twilight he returned by 
way of the stream and hid his horse well back in the woods 
near the mine. To this he now went boldly, and in- 
quired for Tim Atkins, Bute’s assumed name. He was 
directed to the shanty with which he had already made 
himself so familiar. 


4 


50 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

Bute was found alone, and was much surprised at sight of 
his old gambling acquaintance of better days, for his better 
days were those of robbery before he had added the deeper 
stain of murder. Brandt soon allayed active fears and sus- 
picions by giving the impression that in his descensus he had 
reached the stage of robbery and had got on the scent of 
some rich booty in the mountains. 

But how did you know I was here? ” demanded Bute. 

I did n’t know it,” replied Brandt, adopting his old ver- 
nacular ; but I guessed as much, for I knew there was 
more ’n one shady feller in this gang, and I took my chances 
on findin’ you, for says I to myself, if I can find Bute, I Ve 
found the right man to help me crack a ranch when there ’s 
some risk and big plunder.” 

He then disclosed the fact of hearing that the keeper of 
the tavern had accumulated a good sum of hard money, and 
was looking out for a chance to send it to a bank. “ We caij 
save him the trouble, yer know,” he concluded facetiously. 

“ Well,” said Bute, musingly, “ I ’m gittin’ tired of this 
dog’s life, and I reckon I ’ll go snacks with yer and then put 
out fer parts unknown. I was paid t’other day, and there 
ain’t much owin’ me here. I guess it ’ll be safer fer me ter 
keep movin’ on, too.” 

*‘You may well say that, Bute. I heard below that 
there was goin’ to be some investigations inter this gang, 
and that there was more ’n one feller here whose pictur was 
on exhibition.” 

“That so?” said Bute, hastily. “Well, I’ll go with 
yer ter-night, fer it ’s time I was movin’. I kin tell yer one 
thing, though, — there ’ll be no investigations here unless a 
fair-sized regiment makes it. Every man keeps his shooter 
handy.” 

“ Hanged if we care how the thing turns out. You and 


TAKEJV ALIVE, 


51 

me ’ll be far enough away from the shindy. Now make 
your arrangements prompt ; for we must be on the road by 
nine o’clock, so we can get through early in the night and have 
a good start with the swag. My plan is to ambush the 
whiskey shop, go and demand drinks soon after everybody 
is gone, and then proceed to business.” 

Can’t we let my mate, Apache Jack, in with us? 1 ’ll 
stand for him.” 

No, no, I don’t know anything about Apache Jack ; and 
I can trust you. We can manage better alone, and I ’d 
rather have one-half than one-third.” 

Trust me, kin you? you — fool,” thought Bute. “So 
ye thinks I ’ll sit down and divide the plunder socially with 
you when I kin give yer a quiet dig in the ribs and take it 
all. One more man now won’t matter. I ’m a-goin’ ter 
try fer enough ter-night ter take me well out of these 
parts.” 

Bute’s face was sinister enough to suggest any phase of 
evil, and Brandt well knew that he was capable of what he 
meditated. It was now the policy of both parties, however, 
to be very friendly, and Bute was still further mellowed by 
a draught of liquor from Brandt’s flask. 

They had several games of cards in which it was man- 
aged that Bute’s winnings should be the larger ; and at nine 
in the evening they started on what was to Bute another ex- 
pedition of robbery and murder. Mr. Alford, who was on 
the alert, saw them depart with a deep sigh of relief. The 
night was cloudy; but the moon gave plenty of light for 
travelling. Brandt soon secured his horse, and then ap- 
peared to give full rein to his careless, reckless spirit. 

As they approached the stream, he remarked, “ I say 
Bute, it ’s too bad we can’t use the pasteboards while on 
the jog ; but I can win a five out of you by an old game of 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


52 

ours. I bet you I can empty my revolver quicker ’n you 
can.” 

*‘We’d better save our amernition and make no noise.” 

“ Oh, shaw ! I always have better luck when I ’m free 
and careless like. It ’s your sneaking fellers that always 
get caught. Besides, who ’ll notice ? This little game is 
common enough all through the mountains, and everybody 
knows that there ’s no mischief in such kind of firing. I 
want to win back some of my money.” 

‘‘ Well then, take you up ; go ahead.” 

Instantly from Brandt’s pistol there were six reports fol- 
lowing one another so quickly that they could scarcely be 
distinguished. 

“ Now beat that if you can ! ” cried Brandt, who had a 
second and concealed revolver ready for an emergency. 

‘‘ The fool ! ” thought Bute, “ to put himself at the marcy of 
any man. I can pluck him to-night like a winged pa’tridge ; ’’ 
but he too fired almost as quickly as his companion. 

You only used five ca’tridges in that little game, my 
friend,” said Brandt. 

‘‘ Nonsense ! I fired so quick you could n’t count ’em.” 

“ Now see here, Bute,” resumed Brandt, in an aggrieved 
tone, you ’ve got to play fair with me. I ’ve cut my eye- 
teeth since you used to fleece me, and I ’ll swear you fired 
only five shots. Let ’s load and try again.” 

“ What ’s the use of sich nonsense ? You ’ll swar 

that you fired the quickest ; and of course I ’ll swar the 
same, and there ’s nobody here ter jedge. What ’s more, 
Ralph Brandt, I wants you and every man ter know that I 
always keeps a shot in reserve, and that I never misses. So 
let ’s load and jog on, and stop foolin’.” 

''That scheme has failed,” thought Brandt, as he replaced 
the shells with cartridges. 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


53 


His purpose was to find a moment when his companion 
was completely in his power, and it came sooner than he 
expected. When they drew near the brook, it was evident 
that Bute’s pony was thirsty, for it suddenly darted for- 
ward and thrust its nose into the water. Therefore, for an 
instant, Bute was in advance with his back toward the 
detective. Covering the fellow with his revolver, Brandt 
shouted, — 

“Bute, throw up your hands; surrender, or you are a 
dead man ! ” 

Instantly the truth flashed through the outlaw’s mind. 
Instead of complying, he threw himself forward over the 
pony’s neck and urged the animal forward. Brandt fired, 
and Bute fell with a splash into the water. At that mo- 
ment three miners, returning from the tavern, came shout- 
ing to the opposite side of the stream. The frightened pony, 
relieved of its burden, galloped homeward. Brandt also 
withdrew rapidly toward the mine for some distance, and 
then rode into the woods. Having tied his horse well back 
from the highway, he reconnoitred the party that had so in- 
opportunely interfered with his plans. He discovered that 
they were carrying Bute, who, from his groans and oaths, was 
evidently not dead, though he might be mortally wounded. 
His rescuers were breathing out curses and threats of ven- 
geance against Brandt, now known to be an officer of the 
law. 

“The job has become a little complicated now,” muttered 
Brandt, after they had passed ; “ and I must throw them off 
the scent. There will be a dozen out after me soon.” 

He remounted his horse, stole silently down the road, 
crossed the stream, and then galloped to the tavern, and 
calling out the keeper, asked if there was any shorter road 
out of the mountains than the one leading to the west. Be- 


54 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

ing answered in the negative, he rode hastily away. On 
reaching the place where he had struck this road the previ- 
ous day, he entered the woods, followed the rugged trail 
that he had marked by bits of paper, and slowly approached 
the mine road again near the point where the stream crossed 
it. He then reconnoitred and learned that there was evi- 
dently a large party exploring the woods between the stream 
and the mine. 

At last they all gathered at the ford for consultation, and 
Brandt heard one say, — 

a We ’re wastin’ time, beatin’ round here. He ’d naterly 
put fer the lowlands as soon as he found he was balked in 
takin’ his man. I move we call on Whiskey Bob, and see 
if a man 's rode that way ter-night.” 

A call on Whiskey Bob was apparently always acceptable ; 
and the party soon disappeared down the road, — some on 
horses and more on foot. Brandt then quietly crossed the 
road and gained his retreat on the mountain-side. 

I must camp here now till the fellow dies, and I can 
prove it, or until I can get another chance,” was his conclu- 
sion as he rubbed down and fed his horse. 


CHAPTER IV. 


TAKEN ALIVE. 



FTER taking some refreshment himself, Brandt decided 


to go to the thicket opposite the superintendent’s 
house for a little observation. He soon reached this out- 
look, and saw that something unusual was occurring in the 
cottage. At last the door opened, and Bute was assisted to 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


55 

his shanty by two men. They had scarcely disappeared 
before Brandt darted across the road and knocked for 
admittance. 

Great Scott ! you here? ” exclaimed Mr. Alford. 

Yes, and here I ’m going. to stay till I take my man,” 
replied the detective, with a laugh. “ Don’t be alarmed. I 
shall not remain in your house, but in the neighborhood,” 

‘‘You are trifling with your life, and, I may add, with 
mine.” 

“ Not at all. Come up to your bedroom. First draw 
the curtains close, and we ’ll compare notes. I won’t stay 
but a few moments.” 

Mr. Alford felt that it was best to comply, for some one 
might come and find them talking in the hall. When Brandt 
entered the apartment, he threw himself into a chair and 
laughed in his low careless style as he said, “Well, I almost 
bagged my game to-night, and would have done so had not 
three of your men, returning from the tavern, interfered.” 

“ There ’s a party out looking for you now.” 

“ I know it ; but I ’ve put them on the wrong trail. What 
I want to learn is, will Bute live? ” 

“ Yes ; your shot made a long flesh-wound just above his 
shoulders. A little closer, and it would have cut his verte- 
brae and finished him. He has lost a good deal of blood, 
and could not be moved for some days except at some 
risk.” 

“You are sure of that? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, he may have to incur the risk. I only wisti to be 
certain that he will not take it on his own act at once. 
You ’ll soon miss him in any event.” 

“ The sooner the better. I wish your aim had been 
surer.” 


56 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES/^ ^ 

• • 

That wasn’t my good luck. Next time I’ll have to 
shoot closer or else take him alive.” 

“ But you can’t stay in this region. Th^ will all be on 
the alert now.” 

“ Oh, no. The impression will be general to-morrow that 
I ’ve mad^ for the lowlands ^s fast as my horse could carry 
me. Don’t you worry. Till I move again, I ’m safe enough. 
All I ask of you now is to keep Butedn his own shanty, and 
not to let him have more than one man to take care of him 
if possible. Good-night. You may not see me again, and 
then again you may.” 

Well, now that you are here,” said the superintendent, 
who was naturally brave enough, “ spend an hour or two, or 
else stay till just before daylight. I confess I am becoming 
intensely interested in your adventure, and would take a 
hand in it if I could ; but you know well enough that Jf I 
did, and it became known, I would have to^ find business 
elsewhere very suddenly, — that is, if given the chancj^.” 

“ I only wish your passive co-operation. I should be 
glad, however, if you would let me take a horse, if I must.” 

“ Certainly, as long as you leave my black mare.” 

Brandt related what had occurred, giving a comical 
aspect to everything, and then after reconnoitring the^road 
from a darkened window, regained his cover in safety. He 
declined to speak of his future plans or t© give any clew to 
his hiding-place, to which he now returned. 

During the few remaining hours of darkness and most of 
the next day, he slept and lounged about his fire. The next 
night was too bright and clear for anything beyond a recon- 
noissance, and he saw evidences of an alertness which made 
him very cautious. He did not seek another interview with 
^r. Alford, for now nothing was to be gained by it. 

The next day proved cloudy, and with night began a vio- 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


57 


lent storm of wind and rain. Br^dt cowered over his fire 
till nine o’clock, and then taking a slight draught from his 
flask, chuckled, “ This is glorious weather for my work. 
Here’s to Clara’s luckjhis time!” 

In little over an hour he started for the mine, near which 
he concealed his horse. Stealing about in the deep shadows, 
he soon satisfied himself that no one was on the watch, and 
then approaching the rear of Bute’s shanty found to his 
joy that the pony was in the shed. A chink in the board 
siding enabled him to look into the room which contained 
his prey ; he started as he saw Apache Jack, instantly recog- 
nizing in him another criminal for whom a large reward was 
offered. 

“ Better luck than I dreamed of,” he thought. “ I shall 
take them both ; but I nqw shall have to borrow a horse of 
Alford ; ” and he glided away, secured an animal from the 
stable, and ti^ it near his own. In a short time he was 
back ^ his p«>st of observation. It had now become evi- 
dent that no one even imagined that there was danger 
while such a st^rm was raging. The howling wind would 
drown all ordinary noises ; and Brandt determined that the 
two men in the shanty should be on their way to jail that 
night. When he again put his eye to the chink in the wall, 
Bute was* saying, — 

Well, no one will start fer the mountings while this storm 
lasts, but, wound or no wound, I must get out of this as soon 
as it ’s over. There ’s no safety fer me here now.” 

Ef they comes fer you, like enough they ’ll take me,” 
replied Apache Jack, who, now that he was alone with his 
confederate, could speak his style of English fast enough. 
His character of half-breed was a disguise which his dark 
complexion had suggested. “ Ter-morrer night, ef it ’s clar, 
we ’ll put out fer the easterd. I know of a shanty in the 


58 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

woods not so very fur from here in which we kin put up till 
yer’s able ter travel furder. Come, now, take a swig of 
whiskey with me and then we ’ll sleep ; there ’s no need of 
our watchin’ any longer on a night like this. I ’ll jest step 
out an’ see ef the pony’s safe ; sich a storm ’s ’nuff ter scare 
him off ter the woods.” 

“ Well, jest lay my shooter on the cha’r here aside me 
’fore you go. I feel safer with the little bull-dog in reach.” 

This the man did, then putting his own revolver on the 
table, that it might not get wet, began to unbar the door. 
Swift as a shadow Brandt glided out of the shed and around 
on the opposite side of the shanty. 

An instant later Bute was paralyzed by seeing his enemy 
enter the open door. Before the outlaw could realize that 
Brandt was not a feverish vision induced by his wound, the 
detective had captured both revolvers, and was standing 
behind the door awaiting Apache Jack’s return. 

“ Hist ! ” whispered Brandt, “ not a sound, or you will 
both be dead in two minutes.” 

Bute’s nerves were so shattered that he could scarcely 
have spoken, even if he had been reckless enough to do so. 
He felt himself doomed ; and when brutal natures like his 
succumb, they usually break utterly. Therefore he could do 
no more than shiver with unspeakable dread as if he had 
an ague. 

Soon Apache Jack came rushing in out of the storm, to 
be instantly confronted by Brandt’s revolver. The fellow 
glanced at the table, and seeing his own weapon was gone, 
instinctively half drew a long knife. 

“ Put that knife on the table ! ” ordered Brandt, sternly. 
“ Do you think I ’d allow any such foolishness? ” 

The man now realized his powerlessness, and obeyed ; and 
Brandt secured this weapon also. 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


59 


‘‘See here, Apache Jack, or whatever your name is, don’t 
you run your head into a noose. You know I ’m empowered 
to arrest Bute, and you don’t know anything about the force 
I have at hand. All you ’ve got to do is to obey me, an 
officer of the law, like a good citizen. If you don’t, I ’ll 
shoot you ; and that ’s all there is about it. Will you obey 
orders? ” 

“ I no understan’.” 

“ Stop lying ! You understand English as well as I do, 
and I ’ll suspect you if you try that on again. Come, now ! 
I ’ve no time to lose. It ’s death or obedience ! ” 

“ You can’t blame a feller fer standin’ by his mate,” was 
the sullen yet deprecatory reply. 

“ I can blame any man and arrest or shoot him too, who 
obstructs the law. You must obey me for the next half-hour 
to prove that you are not Bute’s accomplice.” 

“ He ’s only my mate, and our rule is ter stand by each 
other ; but, as you say, I can’t help myself, and there ’s no 
use of my goin’ ter jail.” 

“ I should think not,” added Brandt, appealing to the 
fellow’s selfish hope of escaping further trouble if Bute was 
taken. “ Now get my prisoner out of bed and dress him as 
soon as possible.” 

“ But he ain’t able ter be moved. The superintendent 
said he was n’t.” 

“ That ’s my business, not yours. Do as I bid you.” 

“Why don’t yer yell fer help? ” said Bute, in a hoarse 
whisper. 

“ Because he knows I ’d shoot him if he did,” remarked 
Brandt, coolly. 

“ Come, old man,” said Jack, “ luck ’s agin yer. Ef 
there ’s any hollerin’ ter be done, yer’s as able ter do that as^ 
I be.” 


6o 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


Quick, quick ! jerk him out of bed and get him into his 
clothes. I won’t permit one false move.” 

Jack now believed that his only means of safety was to be 
as expeditious as possible, and that if Bute was taken safely 
he v/ould be left unmolested. People of their class rarely 
keep faith with one another when it is wholly against their 
interests to do so. Therefore, in spite of the wounded 
man’s groans, he was quickly dressed and his hands tied 
behind him. As he opened his mouth to give expression to 
his protests, he found himself suddenly gagged by Brandt, 
who stood behind him. Then a strap was buckled about 
his feet, and he lay on the floor helpless and incapable of 
making a sound. 

‘‘Now, Jack,” said Brandt, “go before me and bridle 
and saddle the pony; then bring him to the door.” 

Jack obeyed. 

“ Now put Bute upon him. I’ll hold his head ; but 
remember I ’m covering you with a dead bead all the 
time.” 

“ No need of that. I ’m civil enough now.” 

“ Well, you know we ’re sort of strangers and it ’s no more 
than prudent for me to be on the safe side till we part com- 
pany. That ’s right, strap his feet underneath. Now lead 
the pony in such directions as I say. Don’t try to make off* 
till I ’m through with you, or you ’ll be shot instantly. I 
shall keep within a yard of you all the time.” 

They were not long in reaching the horse that Brandt had 
borrowed, and Jack said, “ I s’pose I kin go now.” 

“ First untie Bute’s hands so he can guide the pony.” 

As the fellow attempted to do this, and his two hands 
were close together, Brandt slipped a pair of light steel hand- 
^cuffs over his wrists, and the man was in his power. Almost 
before the new prisoner could recover from his surprise, he 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


6l 


was lifted on the borrowed horse, and his legs also tied 
underneath. 

This ain’t fa’r. You promised ter let me go when you 
got Bute off.” 

I have n’t got him off yet. Of course I can’t let you go 
right back and bring a dozen men after us. You must be 
reasonable.” 

The fellow yelled for help ; but the wind swept the sound 
away. 

“ If you do that again, I ’ll gag you too,” said Brandt. “ I 
tell you both once more, and I won’t repeat the caution, 
that your lives depend on obedience.” Then he mounted, 
and added, Bute, I ’m going to untie your hands, and you 
must ride on ahead of me. I ’ll lead Jack’s horse.” 

In a moment he had his prisoners in the road, and was 
leaving the mine at a sharp pace. Bute was so cowed and 
dazed with terror that he obeyed mechanically. The stream 
was no longer a shallow brook, but a raging torrent which 
almost swept them away as Brandt urged them relentlessly 
through it. The tavern was dark and silent as they passed 
quickly by it. Then Brandt took the gag from Bute’s mouth, 
and he groaned, cursed, and pldaded by turns. Hour after 
hour he urged them forward, until at last Bute gave out 
and fell forward on the pony’s neck. Brandt dismounted 
and gave the exhausted man a draught from his flask. 

“ Oh, shoot me and have done with it ! ” groaned Bute ; 
“ I ’d rather be shot than hanged anyhow.” 

Could n’t think of it,” replied the detective, cheerily. 
“ My rule is to take prisoners alive, so that they can have a 
f.iir trial and be sure that they get justice. I ’d take you 
the rest of the way in a bed if I could, but if you can’t sit 
up, I ’ll have to tie you on. We ’ll reach a friend of mine 
by daylight, and then you can ride in a wagon, so brace up.” 


62 TAKEN ALIVE : AND OTHER STORIES. 

This the outlaw did for a time, and then he gave out 
utterly and was tied more securely to the pony. Out of 
compassion, Brandt thereafter travelled more slowly ; and 
when the sun was an hour high, he led his forlorn captives 
to the house of a man whom he knew could be depended 
upon for assistance. After a rest sufficient to give Bute 
time to recover somewhat, the remainder of the journey was 
made without any incident worth mentioning, and the pris- 
oners were securely lodged in jail on the evening of the 
24th of December. 


CHAPTER V. 

WHAT BRANDT SAW CHRISTMAS EVE. 

'D RANDT’S words and effort had had their natural effect 
on the mind of Clara Heyward. They proved an in- 
creasing diversion of her thoughts, and slowly dispelled the 
morbid, leaden grief under which she had been sinking. 
Her new anxiety in regard to her lover’s fortune and possi- 
ble fate was a healthful cftunter-irritant. Half consciously 
she yielded to the influence of his strong hopeful spirit, and 
almost before she was aware of it, she too began to hope. 
Chief of all, his manly tenderness and unbargaining love 
stole into her heart like a subtle balm ; and responsive love, 
the most potent of remedies, was renewing her life. She 
found herself counting the days and then the hours that 
must intervene before the 25th. On Christmas Eve her 
woman’s nature triumphed, and she instinctively added such 
little graces to her toilet as her sombre costume permitted. 
She also arranged her beautiful hair in the style which she 
knew he admired. He might come; and she determined 


TAKEN ALIVE. 


63 

that his first glance should reveal that he was not serving 
one who was coldly apathetic to his brave endeavor and 
loyalty. 

Indeed, even she herself wondered at the changes that 
had taken place during the brief time which had elapsed 
since their parting. There was a new light in her eyes; 
and a delicate bloom tinged her cheeks. 

Oh,” she murmured, “ it ’s all so different now that I 
feel that I can live for him and make him happy.” 

She was sure that she could welcome him in a way that 
would assure him of the fulfilment of all his hopes ; but 
when he did come with his eager, questioning eyes, she 
suddenly found herself under a strange restraint, tongue- 
tied and embarrassed. She longed to put her arms about 
his neck and tell him all, — the new life, the new hope 
which his look of deep affection had kindled ; and in ef- 
fort for self-control, she seemed to him almost cold. He 
therefore became perplexed and uncertain of his ground, 
and took refuge in the details of his expedition, mean- 
while mentally assuring himself that he must keep his word 
and put no constraint on the girl contrary to the dictates 
of her heart. 

As his mind grew clearer, his keen observation began to 
reveal hopeful indications. She was listening intently with 
approval, and something more in her expression, he dared 
to fancy. Suddenly he exclaimed, “ How changed you 
are for the better, Clara ! You are lovelier to-night than 
ever you were. What is it in your face that is so sweet 
and bewildering? You were a pretty girl before; now 
you are a beautiful woman.” 

The color came swiftly at his words, and she faltered as 
she averted her eyes, “ Please go on with your story, Ralph. 
You have scarcely begun yet. I fear you were in danger.” 


64 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

He came and stood beside her. Clara,” he pleaded, 
look at me.” 

Hesitatingly she raised her eyes to his. 

“ Shall I tell you what I hope I see? ” 

The faintest suggestion of a smile hovered about her 
trembling lips. 

I hope I see what you surely see in mine. Come, 
Clara, you shall choose before you hear my story. Am I to 
be your husband or friend ? for I Ve vowed that you shall 
not be without a loyal protector.” 

“ Ralph, Ralph,” she cried, springing up and hiding her 
face on his shoulder, “ I have no choice at all. You know 
how I loved papa ; but I ’ve learned that there ’s another 
and different kind of love. I did n’t half understand you 
when you first spoke ; now I do. You will always see in 
my eyes what you ’ve seen to-night.” 




He came and stood beside her. 






Taken Alive. 


Pa,cje ('4. 



f • 



FOUND YET LOST. 


CHAPTER I. 

LOVE IN THE WILDERNESS. 

T_J OPELESS indeed must that region be which May can- 
^ not clothe with some degree of beauty and embroider 
with flowers. On the 5th day of the month the early 
dawn revealed much that would charm the eyes of all true 
lovers of nature even in that section of Virginia whose 
characteristics so grimly correspond with its name, — The 
Wilderness. The low pines and cedars, which abound 
everywhere, had taken a fresh green ; the deciduous trees, 
the tangled thickets, impenetrable in many places by horse 
or man, were putting forth a new, tender foliage, tinted with 
a delicate(^ semblance of autumn hues. Flowers bloomed 
everywhere, humbly in the grass close to the soil as well as 
on the flaunting sprays of shrubbery and vines, filling the air 
with fragrance as the light touched and expanded the petals. 
Wood-thrushes and other birds sang as melodiously and con- 
tentedly as if they had selected some breezy upland forest 
for their nesting- place instead of a region which has become 
a synonym for gloom, horror, and death. 

Lonely and uninhabited in its normal condition, this for- 
bidding wilderness had become peopled with thousands of 
men. The Army of the Potomac was penetrating and 

5 


66 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES, 

seeking to pass through it. Vigilant General Lee had ob- 
served the movement, and with characteristic boldness and 
skill ordered his troops from their strong intrenchments on 
Mine Run toward the Union flank. On this memorable 
morning the van of his columns wakened from their brief 
repose but a short distance from the Federal bivouac. 
Both parties were unconscious of their nearness, for with 
the exception of a few clearings the dense growth restricted 
vision to a narrow range. The Union forces were directed 
in their movements by the compass, as if they were sailors 
on a fog-enshrouded sea ; but they well knew that they were 
seeking their old antagonist, the Army of Northern Vir- 
ginia, and that the stubborn tug-of-war might begin at any 
moment. 

When Captain Nichol shook off the lethargy of a brief 
troubled sleep, he found that the light did not banish his 
gloomy impressions. Those immediately around him were 
still slumbering, wrapped in their blankets. Few sounds 
other than the voices of the awakening birds broke the 
silence. After a little thought he drew his note-book from 
his pocket and wrote as follows : — 

My Darling Helen, — I obey an impulse to write to you 
this morning. It is scarcely light enough to see as yet; but 
very soon we shall be on the move again to meet, — we know not 
what, certainly heavy, desperate fighting. I do not know why 
I am so sad. I have faced the prospect of battles many times 
before, and have passed through them unharmed, but now I am 
depressed by an unusual foreboding. Naturally my thoughts 
turn to you. There was no formal engagement between us 
when I said those words (so hard to speak) of farewell, nor 
have I sought to bind you since. Every month has made more 
clear the uncertainty of life in my calling ; and I felt that I had 
no right to lay upon you any restraint other than that of your 
own feelings If the worst happened, you would be free as far 


FOUND YET LOST 


67 

as I was concerned, and few would know that we had told each 
other of our love. I wish to tell you of mine once more, — not 
for the last time, I hope, but I don’t know. I do love you with 
my whole heart and soul ; and if I am to die in this horrible 
wilderness, where so many of my comrades died a year ago, my 
last thoughts will be of you and of the love of God, which 
3’our love has made more real to me. I love you too well to 
wish my death, should it occur, to spoil your young life. I do 
not ask you to forget me, — that would be worse than death ; 
but I ask you to try to be happy and to make others happy as 
the years pass on. This bloody war will come to an end, will 
become a memory, and those who perish hope to be remem- 
bered; but I do not wish my memory to hang like a cloud over 
the happy days of peace. I close, my darling, in hope, not 
fear, — hope for you, hope for me, whatever may happen to-day 
or on coming days of strife. It only remains for me to do my 
duty. I trust that you will also do yours, which may be even 
harder. Do not give way to despairing grief if I cannot come 
back to you in this world. Let your faith in God and hope of 
a future life inspire and strengthen you in your battles, which 
may require more courage and unselfishness than mine. 

Yours, either in life or death, 

Albert Nichol. 

He made another copy of this letter, put both in envel- 
opes, and addressed them, then sought two men of his 
company who came from his native village. They were 
awake now and boiling their coffee. The officer and the 
privates had grown up as boys together with little difference 
of social standing in the democratic town. When off duty, 
there still existed much of the old familiarity and friendly 
converse, but when Captain Nichol gave an order, his towns- 
men immediately became conscious that they were sepa- 
rated from him by the iron wall of military discipline. 
This characteristic did not alienate his old associates. One 
of the men hit the truth fairly in saying, When Cap speaks 


68 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

as Cap, he’s as hard and sharp as a bayonet-point; but 
when a feller is sick and worn out ’tween times you ’d 
think your granny was coddlin’ yer.” 

It was as friend and old neighbor that Nichol approached 
Sam and Jim Wetherby, two stalwart brothers who had en- 
listed in his company. “ Boys,” he said, I have a favor 
to ask of you. The Lord only knows how the day will end 
for any of us. We will take our chances and do our duty, 
as usual. I hope we may all boil coffee again to-night ; but 
who knows? Here are two letters. If I should fall, and 
either or both of you come out all right, as I trust you will, 
please forward them. If I am with you again to-night, 
return them to me.” 

“ Come, Captain,” said Jim, heartily, the bullet is n’t 
moulded that can harm you. You ’ll lead us into Rich- 
mond yet.” 

“ It will not be from lack of good-will if I don’t. I like 
your spirit ; and I believe the army will get there this time 
whether I ’m with it or not. Do as I ask. There is no 
harm in providing against what may happen. Make your 
breakfast quickly, for orders may come at any moment ; ” 
and he strode away to look after the general readiness of 
his men. 

The two brothers compared the address on the letters 
and laughed a little grimly. “ Cap is a-providing, sure 
enough,” Sam Wetherby remarked. ‘‘They are both 
written to the pretty Helen Kemble that he used to make 
eyes at in the singing-school. I guess he thinks that you 
might stop a bullet as well as himself, Jim.” 

“ It ’s clear he thinks your chances for taking in lead are 
just as good,” replied Jim. “ But come, I ’m one of them 
fellows that ’s never hit till I am hit. One thing at a time, 
and now it ’s breakfast.” 


FOUND YET LOST. 


69 


Well, hanged if I want to charge under the lead of any 
other captain ! ” remarked Sam, meditatively sipping his 
coffee. If that girl up yonder knows Cap’s worth, she ’ll 
cry her eyes out if anything happens to him.” 

A few moments later the birds fled to the closest cover, 
startled by the innumerable bugles sounding the note of 
preparation. Soon the different corps, divisions, and bri- 
gades were upon their prescribed lines of march. No 
movement could be made without revealing the close prox- 
imity of the enemy. Rifle-reports from skirmish lines and 
reconnoitring' parties speedily followed. A Confederate 
force was developed on the turnpike leading southwest from # 

the old Wilderness Tavern ; and the fighting began. At 
about eight o’clock Grant and Meade came up and made 
their headquarters beneath some pine-trees near the tavern. 

General Grant could scarcely believe at first that Lee had 
left his strong intrenchments to give battle in a region little 
better than a jungle ; but he soon had ample and awful 
proof of the fact. Practically unseen by each other, the 
two armies grappled like giants in the dark. So thick 
were the trees and undergrowth that a soldier on a battle 
line could rarely see a thousand men on either side of him, 
yet nearly two hundred thousand men matched their deadly 
strength that day. Hundreds fell, died, and were hidden 
forever from human eyes. 

Thinking to sweep away the rear-guard of Lee’s retreat- 
ing army. Grant ordered a strong advance on the pike in 
the afternoon. At first it was eminently successful, and if 
it had been followed up vigorously and steadily, as it un- 
doubtedly would have been if the commander had known 
what was afterward revealed, it might have resulted in se- 
vere disaster to the Confederates. The enemy was pressed 
back rapidly ; and the advancing Union forces were filled 


70 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES, 

with enthusiasm. Before this early success culminated, gen- 
uine sorrow saddened every one in Captain Nichol’s com- 
pany. With his face toward the enemy, impetuously leading 
his men, he suddenly dropped his sword and fell senseless. 
Sam and Jim Wetherby heard a shell shrieking toward them, 
and saw it explode directly over their beloved leader. They 
rushed to his side ; blood was pouring over his face, and it 
also seemed to them that a fragment of the shell had fatally 
wounded him in the forehead. 

Poor Cap, poor, brave Cap ! ” ejaculated Sam. He 
did n’t give us those letters for nothing.” 

“A bad job, an awfully bad job for us all ! curse the 
eyes that aimed that shell ! ” growled practical Jim. “ Here, 
take hold. We ’ll put him in that little dry ditch we just 
passed, and bury him after the fight, if still on our pins. We 
can’t leave him here to be tramped on.” 

This they did, then hastily rejoined their company, which 
had swept on with the battle line. Alas ! that battle line 
and others also were driven back with terrible slaughter be- 
fore the day closed. Captain Nichol was left in the ditch 
where he had been placed, and poor Sam Wetherby lay on 
his back, staring with eyes that saw not at a shattered bird’s 
nest in the bushes above his head. The letter in his pocket 
mouldered with him. 

Jim’s begrimed and impassive face disguised an aching 
heart as he boiled his coffee alone that night. Then, al- 
though wearied almost to exhaustion, he gave himself no 
rest until he had found what promised to be the safest 
means of forwarding the letter in his pocket. 


FOUND YET LOST 


71 


CHAPTER IL 

LOVE AT HOME. 

T ONG years before the war, happy children were grow- 
ing in the village of Alton. They studied the history 
of wars much as they conned their lessons in geography. 
Scenes of strife belonged to the past, or were enacted 
among people wholly unlike any who dwelt in their peace- 
ful community. That Americans should ever fight each 
other was as undreamed of as that the minister should have 
a pitched battle in the street with his Sunday-school super- 
intendent. They rejoiced mildly when in their progress 
through the United States history, they came to pages de- 
scriptive of Indian wars and the Revolutionary struggle, 
since they found their lessons then more easily remembered 
than the wordy disputes and little understood decisions of 
statesmen. The first skating on the pond was an event 
which far transcended in importance anything related be- 
tween the green covers of the old history book, while to 
Albert Nichol the privilege of strapping skates on the feet 
of little Helen Kemble, and gliding away with her over the 
smooth ice, was a triumph unknown by any general. He 
was the son of a plain farmer, and she the daughter of the 
village banker. Thus, even in childhood, there was thrown 
around her the glamour of position and reputed wealth, — 
advantages which have their value among the most demo- 
cratic folk, although slight outward deference may be paid 
to their possessors. It was the charming little face itself, 
with its piquant smiles and still more piquant pouts, which 
won Albert’s boyish admiration. The fact that she was the 


72 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

banker’s daughter only fired his ambition to be and to do 
something to make her proud of him. 

Hobart Martine, another boy of the village, shared all 
his schoolmate’s admiration for pretty Nellie, as she was 
usually called. He had been lame from birth, and could 
not skate. He could only shiver on the bank or stamp 
around to keep himself warm, while the athletic A1 and the 
graceful little girl passed and repassed, quite forgetting him. 
There was one thing he could do ; and this pleasure he 
waited for till often numb with cold. He could draw the 
child on his sled to her home, which adjoined his own. 

When it came his turn to do this, and he limped patiently 
through the snow, tugging at the rope, his heart grew warm 
as well as his chilled body. She was a rather imperious little 
belle with the other boys, but was usually gentle with him 
because he was lame and quiet. When she thanked him 
kindly and pleasantly at her gate, he was so happy that he 
could scarcely eat his supper. Then his mother would 
laugh and say, “ You ’ve been with your little sweetheart.” 
He would flush and make no reply. 

How little did those children dream of war, even when 
studying their history lessons ! Yet Albert Nichol now lay 
in the Wilderness jungle. He had done much to make his 
little playmate proud of him. The sturdy boy developed 
into a manly man. When he responded to his country’s 
call and raised a company among his old friends and neigh- 
bors, Helen Kemble exulted over him tearfully. She gave 
him the highest tribute within her power and dearest pos- 
session, — her heart. She made every campaign with him, fol- 
lowing him with love’s untiring solicitude through the scenes 
he described, until at last the morning paper turned the morn- 
ing sunshine into mockery and the songs of the birds into 
dirges. Captain Nichol’s name was on the list of the killed. 


FOUND VET LOST. 


73 


With something of the same jealousy, developed and in- 
tensified, which he had experienced while watching Albert 
glide away on the ice with the child adored in a dumb, 
boyish way, Hobart had seen his old schoolmate depart for 
the front. Then his rival took the girl from him ; now he 
took her heart. Martinets lameness kept him from being a 
soldier. He again virtually stood chilled on the bank, with 
a cold, dreary, hopeless feeling which he believed would be- 
numb his life. He did not know, he was not sure that he 
had lost Helen beyond hope, until those lurid days when 
men on both sides were arming and drilling for mutual 
slaughter. She was always so kind to him, and her tones 
so gentle when she spoke, that in love’s fond blindness he 
had dared to hope. He eventually learned that she was 
only sorry for him. He did not, could not, blame her, 
for he needed but to glance at Nichol’s stalwart form, 
and recall the young soldier’s record in order to know that 
it would be strange indeed if the girl had chosen otherwise. 
He would have been more than human if there had not 
been some bitterness in his heart ; but he fought it down 
honestly, and while pursuing his peaceful avocations en- 
gaged in what he believed would be a lifelong battle. He 
smiled at the girl across the garden fence and called out his 
cheery “ Good-morning.” He was her frequent companion 
by the fireside or on the piazza, according to the season ; 
and he alone of the young men was welcome, for she had 
little sympathy for those who remained at home without 
his excuse. He was so bravely her friend, keeping his 
great love so sternly repressed that she only felt it like 
a genial warmth in his tones and manner, and believed 
that he was becoming in truth what he seemed, merely a 
friend. 

On that terrible May morning be was out in the garden 


74 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


and heard her wild, despairing cry as she read the fatal 
words. He knew that a heavy battle had been begun, and 
was going down to the gate for his paper, which the news- 
boy had just left. There was no need of opening it, for the 
bitter cry he had heard made known to him the one item 
of intelligence compared with which all else for the time 
became insignificant. Was it the Devil that inspired a 
great throb of hope in his heart ? At any rate he thought 
it was, and ground his heel into the gravel as if the ser- 
pent’s head was beneath it, then limped to Mr. Kemble’s 
door. 

The old banker came out to meet him, shaking his gray 
head and holding the paper in his trembling hand. Ah ! ” 
he groaned, I ’ve feared it, I ’ve feared it all along, but 
hoped that it would not be. You ’ve seen Nichol’s name — ” 
but he could not finish the sentence. 

“No, I have seen nothing; I only heard Helen’s cry. 
That told the whole story.” 

“ Yes. Well, her mother ’s with her. Poor girl ! poor 
girl ! God grant it is n’t her death-blow too. She has 
suffered too much under this long strain of anxiety.” 

A generous resolve was forming in Martine’s mind, and 
he said earnestly, “ We must tide her through this ter- 
rible shock. There may be some mistake ; he may be only 
wounded. Do not let her give up hope absolutely. I ’ll 
drop everything and go to the battle-field at once. If the 
worst has in truth happened, I can bring home his remains, 
and that would be a comfort to her. A newspaper report, 
made up hastily in the field, is not final. Let this hope 
break the cruel force of the blow, for it is hard to live 
without hope.” 

“ Well, Hobart, you are a true friend. God bless and 
reward you ! If nothing comes of it for poor Nichol, as 


FOUND YET LOST. 


75 


I fear nothing will, your journey and effort will give a 
faint hope to Nellie, and, as you say, break the force of 
the blow. I ’ll go and tell her.” 

Martine went into the parlor, which Helen had deco- 
rated with mementos of her soldier lover. He was alone 
but a few moments before he heard hasty steps. Helen 
entered with hot, tearless eyes and an agonized, imploring 
expression. 

What ! ” she cried, is it true that you ’ll go? ” 

“ Yes, Helen, immediately. I do not think there ’s reason 
for despair.” 

“ Oh, God bless you ! friend, friend ! I never knew what 
the word meant before. Oh, Hobart, no sister ever lavished 
love on a brother as I will love you if you bring back my 
Albert ; ” and in the impulse of her overwhelming gratitude 
she buried her face on his shoulder and sobbed aloud. 
Hope already brought the relief of tears. 

He stroked the bowed head gently, saying, “ God is my 
witness, Helen, that I will spare no pains and shrink from 
no danger in trying to find Captain Nichol. I have known 
of many instances where the first reports of battles proved 
incorrect ; ” and he led her to a chair. 

It is asking so much of you,” she faltered. 

You have asked nothing, Helen. I have offered to go, 
and I am going. It is a little thing for me to do. You 
know that my lameness only kept me from joining Captain 
Nichol’s company. Now try to control your natural feelings 
like a brave girl, while I explain my plans as far as I have 
formed them.” 

“ Yes, yes ! Wait a few moments. Oh, this pain at 
my heart ! I think it would have broken if you had n’t 
come. I could n’t breathe ; I just felt as if sinking under 
a weight.” 




TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 




Take courage, Helen. Remember Albert is a soldier.” 

Is, is/ Oh, thanks for that little word ! You do not 
believe that he is gone and lost to me?” 

I cannot believe it yet. We will not believe it. Now 
listen patiently, for you will have your part to do.” 

Yes, yes ; if I could only do something ! That would 
help me so much. Oh, if I could only go with you ! ” 

“ That would not be best or wise, and might defeat my 
efforts. I must be free to go where you could not, — to 
visit places unsafe for you. My first step must be to get 
letters to our State senator. Your father can write one, and 
I ’ll get one or two others. The senator will give me a let- 
ter to the governor, who in turn will accredit me to the au- 
thorities at Washington and the officer in command on the 
battle-field. You know I shall need passes. Those who go 
to the extreme front must be able to account for them- 
sel\^es. I will keep in telegraphic communication with you, 
^nd you may receive additional tidings which will aid me in 
my search. Mr. Kemble ! ” he concluded, calling her father 
from his perturbed pacing up and down the hall. 

‘‘ Ah ! ” said the banker, entering, ‘‘ this is a hundredfold 
better than despairing, useless grief. I ’ve heard the gist 
of what Hobart has said, and approve it. Now I ’ll call 
mother, so that we may all take courage and get a good 
grip on hope.” 

They consulted together briefly, and in the prospect of 
action, Helen was carried through the first dangerous crisis 
in her experience. 


FOUND YET LOST. 


77 


CHAPTER III. 

DISABLED.” 

A yf RS. MARTINE grieved over her son’s unexpected re- 
^ solve. In her estimation he was engaging in a very 
dangerous and doubtful expedition. Probably mothers will 
never outgrow a certain jealousy when they find that another 
woman has become first in the hearts of their sons. The 
sense of robbery was especially strong in this case, for Mrs. 
Martine was a widow, and Hobart an only and idolized child. 

The mother speedily saw that it would be useless to re- 
monstrate, and tearfully aided him in his preparations. Be- 
fore he departed, he won her over as an ally. “ These times, 
mother, are bringing heavy burdens to very many, and we 
should help each other bear them. You know what Helen is 
to me, and must be always. That is something which cannot 
be changed. My love has grown with my growth and become 
inseparable from my life. I have my times of weakness, 
but think I can truly say that I love her so well that I would 
rather make her happy at any cost to myself. If it is within 
my power, I shall certainly bring Nichol back, alive or dead. 
Prove your love to me, mother, by cheering, comforting, and 
sustaining that poor girl. I have n’t as much hope of suc- 
cess as I tried to give her, but she needs hope now; she 
must have it, or there is no assurance against disastrous 
effects on her health and mind. I could n’t bear that.” 

“ Well, Hobart, if he is dead, she certainly ought to reward 
you some day.” ^ 

“We must not think of that. The future isi not in our 
hands. We can only do what is duty now.’’ 


% 


y8 TAKEN ALiyE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

Noble, generous purposes give their impress to that in- 
dex of character, the human face. When Martine came 
to say good-by to Helen, she saw the quiet, patient cripple 
in a new light. He no longer secured her strong affection 
chiefly on the basis of gentle, womanly commiseration. He 
was proving the possession of those qualities which appeal 
strongly to the feminine nature ; he was showing himself 
capable of prompt, courageous action, and his plain face, re- 
vealing the spirit which animated him, became that of a hero 
in her eyes. She divined the truth, — the love so strong 
and unselfish that it would sacrifice itself utterly for her. 
He was seeking to bring back her lover when success in 
his mission would blot out all hope for him. The effect of 
his action was most salutary, rousing her from; the inertia 
of grief and despair. “ If a mere friend,” she murmured, 
“ can be so brave and self-forgetful, I have no excuse for 
giving away utterly.” 

She revealed in some degree her new impressions in part- 
ing. “ Hobart,” she said, holding his hand in both of hers, 
“ you have done much to help me. You have not only 
brought hope, but you have also shown a spirit which would 
shame me out of a selfish grief. I cannot now forget the 
claims of others, of my dear father and mother here, and I 
promise you that I will try to be brave like you, like Albert. 
I shall not become a weak, helpless burden, I shall not sit 
still and wring idle hands when others are heroically doing 
and suffering. Good-by, my friend, my brother. God help 

all ! ” 

* He felt that she understood him now as never before ; 
and the knowledge inspired a more resolute purpose, if this 
were possible. That afternoon he was on his way. There 
came two or three days of terrible suspense for Helen, re- 
lieved only by telegrams from Martine as he passed froin 


$ 


FOUND YET LOST. 7^ 

point to point. The poor girl struggled as a swimmer 
breasts pitiless waves intervening between him and the 
shore. She scarcely allowed herself an idle moment ; but 
her effort was feverish and in a measure the result of ex- 
citement. The papers were searched for any scrap of 
intelligence, and the daily mail waited for until the hours 
and minutes were counted before its arrival. 

One morning her father placed Nichol’s letter in her 
hands. They so trembled in the immense hope, the over- 
whelming emotion which swept over her at sight of the 
familiar handwriting, that at first she could not open it. 
When at last she read the prophetic message, she almost 
blotted out the writing with her tears, moaning, ‘‘ He ’s dead, 
he ’s dead ! ” In her morbid, overwrought condition, the 
foreboding that had been in the mind of the writer was con- 
veyed to hers ; and she practically gave up hope for anything 
better than the discovery and return of his remains. Her 
father, mother, and intimate friends tried in vain to rally 
her; but the conviction remained that she had read her 
lover’s farewell words. In spite of the most pathetic and 
strenuous effort, she could not keep up any longer, and 
sobbed till she slept in utter exhaustion. 

On the following day, old Mr. Wetherby came into the 
bank. The lines about his mouth were rigid with suppressed 
feeling. He handed Mr. Kemble a letter, saying in a husky 
voice, Jim sent this. He says at the end I was to show it 
to you.” The scrawl gave in brief the details about Captain 
Nichol already known to the reader, and stated also ^h.* 
Sam Wetherby was missing. ‘‘ All I know is,” wrote the 
soldier, that we were driven back, and bullets flew like 
hail. The brush was so thick I could n’t see five yards 
either way when I lost sight of Sam.” 

The colonel of the regiment alsowiote to Captain Nichol’s 


80 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES, 

father, confirming Private Wetherby’s letter. The village 
had been thrown into a ferment by the tidings of the battle 
and its disastrous consequences. There was bitter lamen- 
tation in many homes. Perhaps the names of Captain 
Nichol and Helen were oftenest repeated in the little com- 
munity, for the fact of their mutual hopes was no longer a 
secret. Even thus early some sagacious people nodded 
their heads and remarked, “ Hobart Martine may have his 
chance yet.” Helen Kemble believed without the shadow 
of a doubt that all the heart she had for love had perished 
in the wilderness. 

The facts contained in Jim Wetherby’s letter were tele- 
graphed to Martine, and he was not long in discovering 
confirmation of them in the temporary hospitals near the 
battle-field. He found a man of Captain Nichol’s com- 
pany to whom Jim had related the circumstances. For 
days the loyal friend searched laboriously the horrible 
region of strife, often sickened nearly unto death by the 
scenes he witnessed, for his nature had not been rendered 
callous by familiarity with the results of war. Then instead 
of returning home, he employed the influence given by his 
letters and passes, backed by his own earnest pleading, to 
obtain permission for a visit to Nichol’s regiment. He 
found it under fire ; and long afterward Jim Wetherby was 
fond of relating how quietly the lame civilian listened to the 
shells shrieking over and exploding around him. Thus 
Martine learned all that could be gathered of Nichol’s fate, 
and then, ill and exhausted, he turned his face northward. 
He felt that it would be a hopeless task to renew his search 
on the battle-field, much of which had been burned over. 
He also had the conviction it would be fatal to him to look 
upon its unspeakable horrors, and breathe again its pesti- 
lential air. 


FOUND YET LOST. 


8 


He was a sick man when he arrived at home, but was 
able to relate modestly in outline the history of his efforts, 
softening and concealing much that he had witnessed. In 
the delirium of fever which followed, they learned more 
fully of what he had endured, of how he had forced himself 
to look upon things which, reproduced in his ravings, almost 
froze the blood of his watchers. 

Helen Kemble felt that her cup of bitterness had been 
filled anew, yet the distraction of a new grief, in which there 
was a certain remorseful self-reproach, had the effect of 
blunting the sharp edge of her first sorrow. In this new 
cause for dread she was compelled in some degree to for- 
get herself. She saw the intense solicitude of her father 
and mother, who had been so readily accessory to Martine’s 
expedition ; she also saw that his mother’s heart was almost 
breaking under the strain of anxiety. His incoherent words 
were not needed to reveal that his effort had been prompted 
by his love. She was one of his watchers, patiently endur- 
ing the expressions of regret which the mother in her sharp 
agony could not repress. Nichol’s last letter was now 
known by heart, its every word felt to be prophetic. She 
had indeed been called upon to exercise courage and forti- 
tude greater than he could manifest even in the Wilderness 
battle. Although she often faltered, she did not fail in car- 
rying out his instructions. When at last Martine, a pallid 
convalescent, could sit in the shade on the piazza, she 
looked older by years, having, besides, the expression seen 
in the eyes of some women who have suffered much, and 
can still suffer much more. In the matter relating to their 
deepest consciousness, no words had passed between them. 
She felt as if she were a widow, and hoped he would un- 
derstand. His full recognition of her position, and ac- 
ceptance of the fact that she did and must mourn for her 

6 


82 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

lover, his complete self-abnegation, brought her a sense of 
peace. 

The old clock on the landing of the stairway measured off 
the hours and days with monotonous regularity. Some of the 
hours and days had been immeasurably longer than the an- 
cient time-keeper had indicated ; but in accordance with usual 
human experiences, they began to grow shorter. Poignant 
sorrow cannot maintain its severity, or people could not live. 
Vines, grasses, and flowers covered the graves in Virginia ; 
the little cares, duties, and amenities of life began to screen 
at times the sorrows that were nevertheless ever present. 

“ Hobart,” Helen said one day in the latter part of June, 
do you think you will be strong enough to attend the com- 
memorative services next week? You know they have been 
waiting for you.” 

“Yes,” he replied quietly; “and they should not have 
delayed them so long. It is very sad that so many others 
have been added since — since — ” 

“ Well, you have not been told, for we have tried to keep 
every depressing and disquieting influence from you. Dr. 
Barnes said it was very necessary, because you had seen 
so much that you should try to forget. Ah, my friend, I can 
never forget what you suffered for me ! Captain Nichol’s 
funeral sermon was preached while you were so ill. I was 
not present — I could not be. I ’ve been to see his mother 
often, and she understands me. I could not have controlled 
my grief, and I have a horror of displaying my most sacred 
feelings in public. Father and the people also wish you to 
be present at the general commemorative services, when 
our senator will deliver a eulogy on those of our town who 
have fallen ; but I don’t think you should go if you feel that 
it will have a bad effect on you.” 

“ I shall be present, Helen. I suppose my mind has 


FOUND YET LOST. 


83 

been weak like my body ; but the time has come when I 
must take up life again and accept its conditions as others 
are doing. You certainly are setting me a good example. 
I admit that my illness has left a peculiar repugnance to 
hearing and thinking about the war ; it all seemed so very 
horrible. But if our brave men can face the thing itself, I 
should be weak indeed if I could not listen to a eulogy of 
their deeds.” 

I am coming to think,” resumed Helen, thoughtfully, 
that the battle line extends from Maine to the Gulf, and 
that quiet people like you and me are upon it as truly as 
the soldiers in the field. I have thought that perhaps the 
most merciful wounds are often those which kill outright.” 

I can easily believe that,” he said. 

His quiet tone and manner did not deceive her, and she 
looked at him wistfully as she resumed, But if they do 
not kill, the pain must be borne patiently, even though we 
are in a measure disabled.” 

Yes, Helen ; and you are disabled in your power to 
give me what I can never help giving you. I know that. 
I will not misjudge or presume upon your kindness. We 
are too good friends to affect any concealments from each 
other.” 

You have expressed my very thought. When you spoke 
of accepting the conditions of life, I hoped you had in mind 
what you have said, — the 'conditions of life as they are^ 
as we cannot help or change them. We both have got to 
take up life under new conditions.” 

You have ; not I, Helen.” 

Tears rushed to her eyes as she faltered, “ I would be 
transparently false should I affect not to know. What I 
wish you to feel through the coming months and years is 
that I cannot, — that I am disabled by my wound.” 


84 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

I understand, Helen. We can go on as we have begun. 
You have lost, as I have not, for I have never possessed. 
You will be the greater sufferer ; and it will be my dear 
privilege to cheer and sustain you in such ways as are 
possible to a simple friend.” 

She regarded him gratefully, and for the first time since 
that terrible May morning the semblance of a smile briefiy 
illumined her face. 


CHAPTER IV. 

MARTINE SEEKS AN ANTIDOTE. 

T T can readily be understood that Martine in his expedi- 
^ tion to the South, had not limited his efforts solely to 
his search for Captain Nichol. Wherever it had been within 
his power he had learned all that he could of other officers 
and men who had come from his native region ; and his 
letters to their relatives had been in some instances sources 
of unspeakable comfort. In his visit to the front he had 
also seen and conversed with his fellow-townsmen, some of 
whom had since perished or had been wounded. As be 
grew stronger, Helen wrote out at his dictation all that he 
could remember concerning these interviews ; and these 
accounts became precious heirlooms in many families. 

On the Fourth of July the commemorative oration was 
delivered by the senator, who proved himself to be more 
than senator by his deep, honest feeling and good taste. 
The spread eagle ” element was conspicuously absent in 
his solemn, dignified, yet hopeful words. He gave to each 
their meed of praise. He grew eloquent over the enlisted 
men who had so bravely done their duty without the in- 


FOUIVD YET LOST. 


85 

centive of ambition. When he spoke of the honor re- 
flected on the village by the heroism of Captain Nichol, the 
hearts of the people glowed with gratitude and pride ; but 
thoughts of pity came to all as they remembered the 
girl, robed in black, who sat with bowed head among 
them. 

“ I can best bring my words to a close,” said the sena- 
tor, by reading part of a letter written by one of your 
townsmen, a private in the ranks, yet expressive of feelings 
inseparable from our common human nature, — 

“ Dear Father, — You know I ain’t much given to fine feel- 
ings or fine words. Poor Sam beat me all holler in such things; 
but I want you and all the folks in Alton to know that you Ve got 
a regular soldier at home. Of course we were all glad to see Bart 
Martine ; and we expected to have a good-natured laugh at his 
expense when the shells began to fly. Soldiers laugh, as they 
eat, every chance they get, ’cause they remember it may be the 
last one. Well, we knew Bart didn’t know any more about 
war than a chicken, and we expected to see him get very nerv- 
ous and limp off to the rear on the double quick. He didn’t 
scare worth a cent. When a shell screeched over our heads, he 
just waited till the dinged noise was out of our ears and then 
went on with his questions about poor Cap and Sam and the 
others from our town. We were supporting a battery, and most 
of us lying down. He sat therewith us a good hour, telling 
about the folks at home, and how you were all following us 
with your thoughts and prayers, and how you all mourned with 
those who lost friends, and were looking after the children of 
the killed and wounded. Fact is. before we knew it we were 
all on our feet cheering for Alton and the folks at home and 
the little lame man, who was just as good a soldier as any of 
us. I tell you he heartened up the boys, what’s left of us. 
I ’m sorry to hear he ’s so sick. If he should die, bury him 
with a soldier’s honors. 


“James Wetherby. 


86 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ These plain, simple, unadorned words,” concluded the 
senator, “ need no comment. Their force and significance 
cannot be enhanced by anything I can say. I do not know 
that I could listen quietly to shrieking and exploding shells 
while I spoke words of courage and good cheer; but I 
do know that I wish to be among the foremost to honor 
your modest, unassuming townsman, who could do all this 
and more.” 

Martine was visibly distressed by this unexpected feature 
in the oration and the plaudits which followed. He was 
too sad, too weak in body and mind, and too fresh from the 
ghastly battle-field, not to shrink in sensitive pain from per- 
sonal and public commendation. He evaded his neighbors 
as far as possible and limped hastily away. 

He did not see Helen again till the following morning, 
for her wound had been opened afresh, and she spent the 
remainder of the day and evening in the solitude of her 
room. Martine was troubled at this, and thought she felt 
as he did. 

In the morning she joined him on the piazza. She was 
pale from her long sad vigil, but renewed strength and a 
gentle patience were expressed in her thin face. 

“ It ’s too bad, Helen,” he broke out in unwonted irrita- 
tion. “I wouldn’t have gone if I had known. It was a 
miserable letting down of all that had gone before, — that 
reference to me.” 

Now she smiled brightly as she said, “You are the 
only one present who thought so. Has this been worry- 
ing you? ” 

“ Yes, it has. If the speaker had seen what I saw, he 
would have known better. His words only wounded me.” 

“ He judged you by other men, Hobart. His words 
would not have wounded very many. I ’m glad I heard 


FO UN D YET LOS T. 


87 

that letter, — that I have learned what I never could from 
you. I ’m very proud of my friend. What silly creatures 
women are, anyway ! They want their friends to be brave, 
yet dread the consequences of their being so beyond 
words.” 

‘‘Well,” said Martine, a little grimly, “I’m going to my 
office to-morrow. I feel the need of a long course of read- 
ing in Blackstone.” 

“You must help keep me busy also,” was her reply. 

“ I ’ve thought about that ; yes, a great deal. You need 
some wholesome, natural interest that is capable of becom- 
ing somewhat absorbing. Is it strange that I should recom- 
mend one phase of my hobby, flowers? You know that 
every tree, shrub, and plant on our little place is a sort of a 
pet with me. You are fond of flowers, but have never given 
much thought to their care, leaving that to your gardener. 
Flowers are only half enjoyed by those who do not cultivate 
them, nurse, or pet them. Then there is such an infinite 
variety that before you know it your thoughts are pleasantly 
occupied in experimenting with even one family of plants. 
It is an interest which will keep you much in the open air 
and bring you close to Mother Nature.” 

The result of this talk was that the sad-hearted girl, first 
by resolute effort and then by a growing fondness for the 
tasks, began to take a personal interest in the daily welfare 
of her plants. Martine and her father were always on the 
look-out for something new and rare ; and as winter ap- 
proached, the former had a small conservatory built on the 
sunny side of the house. They also gave her several caged 
song-birds, which soon learned to recognize and welcome 
her. From one of his clients Martine obtained a droll- 
looking dog that seemed to possess almost human intelli- 
gence. In the daily care of living things and dependent 


88 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

creatures that could bloom or be joyous without jarring 
upon her feelings, as would human mirth or gayety, her 
mind became wholesomely occupied part of each day ; she 
could smile at objects which did not know, which could 
not understand. 

Still, there was no effort on her part to escape sad memo- 
ries or the acts and duties which revived them. A noble 
monument had been erected to Captain Nichol, and one of 
her chief pleasures was to decorate it with the flowers grown 
under her own care. Few days passed on which she did 
not visit one of the families who were or had been repre- 
sented at the front, while Mrs. Nichol felt that if she had 
lost a son she had in a measure gained a daughter. As the 
months passed and winter was well-nigh spent, the wise 
gossips of the village again began to shake their heads and 
remark, Helen Kemble and Bart Martine are very good 
friends ; but 1 guess that ’s all it will amount to — all, at any 
rate, for a long time.” 

All, for all time, Helen had honestly thought. It might 
easily have been for all time had another lover sought her, 
or if Martine himself had become a wooer and so put her 
on her guard. It was his patient acceptance of what she 
had said could not be helped, his self-forgetfulness, which 
caused her to remember his need, — a need greatly in- 
creased by a sad event. In the breaking up of winter his 
mother took a heavy cold which ended in pneumonia and 
death. 

The gossips made many plans for him and indulged in 
many surmises as to what he would do ; but he merely en- 
gaged the services of an old woman as domestic, and lived 
on quietly as before. Perhaps he grew a little morbid after 
this bereavement and clung more closely to his lonely 
hearth. 


FOUND YET LOST. 


89 


This would not be strange. Those who dwell among 
shadows become ill at ease away from them. Helen was 
the first to discover this tendency, and to note that he was 
not rallying as she had hoped he would. He rarely sought 
their house except by invitation, and then often lapsed into 
silences which he broke with an evident effort. He never 
uttered a word of complaint or consciously appealed for 
sympathy, but was slowly yielding to the steady pressure of 
sadness which had almost been his heritage. She would 
have been less than woman if, recalling the past and know- 
ing so well the unsatisfied love in his heart, she had not felt 
for him daily a larger and deeper commiseration. When 
the early March winds rattled the casements, or drove the 
sleety rain against the windows, she saw him in fancy sitting 
alone brooding, always brooding. 

One day she asked abruptly, “ Hobart, what are you 
thinking about so deeply when you are looking at the fire? ” 
A slow, deep flush came into his face, and he hesitated in 
his answer. At last he said, ‘‘ I fear I ’m getting into a bad 
mood, and think I must do something decided. Well, for 
one thing, the continuance of this war weighs upon my 
spirit. Men are getting so scarce that I believe they will 
take me in some capacity. Now that mother is not here, I 
think I ought to go.” 

Oh, Hobart, we would miss you so ! ” she faltered. 

He looked up with a smile. ‘‘ Yes, Helen, I think you 
would, — not many others, though. You have become so 
brave and strong that you do not need me any more.” 

I am not so brave and strong as I seem. If I were, 
how did I become so? With the tact and delicacy of a 
woman, yet with the strength of a man, you broke the crush- 
ing force of the first blow, and have helped me ever since.” 

You see everything through a very friendly medium. 


go TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

At any rate I could not have been content a moment if I 
had ndt done all in my power. You do not need me any 
longer ; you have become a source of strength to others. I 
cannot help seeing crowded hospital wards ; and the thought 
pursues me that in one of them I might do something to 
restore a soldier to his place in the field or save him for 
those at home. I could at least be a hospital nurse, and I be- 
lieve it would be better for me to be doing some such work.” 

“ I believe it would be better for me also,” she answered, 
her eyes full of tears. 

No, Helen, no, indeed. You have the higher mission 
of healing the heart-wounds which the war is making in 
your own vicinity. You should not think of leaving your 
father and mother in their old age, or of filling their days 
with anxiety which might shorten their lives.” 

It will be very hard for us to let you go. Oh, I did not 
think I would have to face this also ! ” 

He glanced at her hastily, for there was a sharp distress 
in her tone, of which she was scarcely conscious herself. 
Then, as if recollecting himself, he reasoned gently and 
earnestly, “ You were not long in adopting the best anti- 
dote for trouble. In comforting others, you have been com- 
forted. The campaign is opening in Virginia ; and I think 
it would be a good and wholesome thing for me to be at 
work among the wounded. If I can save one life, it will be 
such a comfort after the war is over.” 

Yes,” she replied softly ; “ the war will be over some 
day. Albert, in his last letter, said the war would cease, and 
that happy days of peace were coming. How they can 
ever be happy days to some I scarcely know ; but he seemed 
to foresee the future when he wrote.” 

Helen, I ’m going. Perhaps the days of peace will 
be a little happier if I go.” 


FOUND YET LOST. 


91 


CHAPTER V. 

SECOND BLOOM. 

IV yf ARTINE carried out his purpose almost immediately^ 
seeking the temporary and most exposed hospitals on 
the extreme left of Grant’s army before Petersburgh. Indeed, 
while battles were still in progress he would make his way 
to the front and become the surgeon’s tireless assistant. 
While thus engaged, even under the enemy’s fire, he was 
able to render services to Jim Wetherby which probably 
saved the soldier’s life. Jim lost his right arm, but found 
a nurse who did not let him want for anything till the dan- 
ger point following amputation had passed. Before many 
weeks he was safe at home, and from him Helen learned 
more of Martine’s quiet heroism than she could ever 
gather from his letters. In Jim Wetherby ’s estimation 
Cap and Bart Martine were the two heroes of the war. 

The latter had found the right antidote. Not a moment 
was left for morbid brooding. On every side were sharp 
physical distress, deadly peril to life and limb, pathetic 
efforts to hold ground against diseases or sloughing wounds. 
In aiding such endeavor, in giving moral support and physi- 
cal care, Martine forgot himself. Helen’s letters also were 
an increasing inspiration. He could scarcely take up one of 
them and say, “ Here her words begin to have a warmer 
tinge of feeling ; ” but as spring advanced, imperceptibly 
yet surely, in spite of pauses and apparent retrogressions, 
just so surely she revealed a certain warmth of sympathy. 
He was engaged in a work which made it easy for her to 
idealize him. His unselfish effort to help men live, to keep 


92 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


bitter tears from the eyes of their relatives, appealed most 
powerfully to all that was unselfish in her nature, and she 
was beginning to ask, “ If I can make this man happier, 
why should I not do so?” Nichol’s letter gained a new 
meaning in the light of events : I do not ask you to for- 
get me, — that would be worse than death, — but I ask you 
to try to be happy and to make others happy.” 

‘‘ A noble, generous nature prompted those words,” she 
now often mused. “ How can I obey their spirit better 
than in rewarding the man who not only has done so 
much for me, but also at every cost sought to rescue 
him? ” 

In this growing disposition she had no innate repugnance 
to overcome, nor the shrinking which can neither be defined 
nor reasoned against. Accustomed to see him almost 
daily from childhood, conscious for years that he was giv- 
ing her a love that was virtually homage, she found her 
heart growing very compassionate and ready to yield the 
strong, quiet affection which she believed might satisfy him. 
This had come about through no effort on her part, from no 
seeking on his, but was the result of circumstances, the 
outgrowth of her best and most unselfish feelings. 

But the effect began to separate itself in character from 
its causes. All that had gone before might explain why 
she was learning to love him, and be sufficient reason for 
this affection, but a woman’s love, even that quiet phase 
developing in Helen’s heart, is not like a man’s conviction, 
for which he can give his clear-cut reasons. It is a tender- 
ness for its object, — a wish to serve and give all in return 
for what it receives. 

Martine vaguely felt this change in Helen long before he 
understood it. He saw only a warmer glow of sisterly affec- 
tion, too high a valuation of his self-denying work, and a more 


FOUND YET LOST 


93 

generous attempt to give him all the solace and support 
within her power. 

One day in July, when the war was well over and the 
field hospitals long since broken up, he wrote from Wash - 
ington, where he was still pursuing his labors, — 

“ My work is drawing to a close. Although I have not ac- 
complished a tithe of what I wished to do, and have seen so 
much left undone, I am glad to remember that I have alleviated 
much pain and, I think, saved some lives. Such success as I 
have had, dear Helen, has largely been due to you. Your let- 
ters have been like manna. You do not know — it would be 
impossible for you to know — the strength they have given, the 
inspiration they have afforded. I am naturally very weary and 
worn physically, and the doctors s ty I must soon have rest ; but 
your kind words have been life-giving to my soul. I turn to 
them from day to day as one would seek a cool, unfailing 
spring. I can now accept life gratefully with the conditions 
which cannot be changed. How fine is the influence of a 
woman like you I What deep springs of action it touches ! 
When waiting on the sick and wounded, I try to blend your 
womanly nature with my coarser fibre. Truly neither of us has 
suffered in vain if we learn better to minister to others. I can- 
not tell you how I long to see the home gardens again; and it 
now seems that just to watch you in yours will be unalloyed 
happiness.” 

Helen smiled over this letter with sweet, deep meanings 
in her eyes. 

One August evening, as the Kemble family sat at tea, he 
gave them a joyous surprise by appearing at the door and 
asking in a matter-of-fact voice, Can you put an extra 
plate on the table?” 

There was no mistaking the gladness of her welcome, 
for it was as- genuine as the bluff heartiness of her father 
and the gentle solicitude of her mother, who exclaimed, 
“ Oh, Hobart, how thin and pale you are ! ” 


94 TAKEN ALIVE : AND OTHER STORIES. 

A few weeks’ rest at home will remedy all that,” he 
said. “ The heat in Washington was more trying than my 
work.” 

“ Well, thank the Lord ! you are at home once more,” 
cried the banker. “ I was thinking of drawing on the au- 
thorities at Washington for a neighbor who had been 
loaned much too long.” 

“ Helen,” said Martine, with pleased eyes, how well 
you look ! It is a perfect delight to see color in your 
cheeks once more. They are gaining too their old lovely 
roundness. I ’m going to say what I think right out, for 
I ’ve been with soldiers so long that I ’ve acquired their 
bluntness.” 

It ’s that garden work you lured me into,” she ex- 
plained. I hope you won’t think your plants and trees 
have been neglected.” 

Have you been keeping my pets from missing me ? ” 

I guess they have missed you least of all. Helen has 
seen to it that they were cared for first,” said Mrs. Kemble, 
emphatically. 

You did n’t write about that ; ” and he looked at the girl 
gratefully. 

Do you think I could see weeds and neglect just over 
the fence? ” she asked with a piquant toss of her head. 

“ Do you think I could believe that you cared for my 
garden only that your eyes might not be offended?” 

There, I only wished to give you a little surprise. You 
have treated us to one by walking in with such delightful 
unexpectedness, and so should understand. I ’ll show you 
when you are through supper.” 

I ’m through now ; ” and he rose with a promptness 
most pleasing to her. His gladness in recognizing old and 
carefully-nurtured friends, his keen, appreciative interest in 


FOUND YET LOST. 


95 

the new candidates for favor that she had planted, rewarded 
her abundantly. 

“ Oh,” he exclaimed, what a heavenly exchange from the 
close, fetid air of hospital wards ! Could the first man have 
been more content in his divinely-planted garden? ” 

She looked at him shyly and thought, “ Perhaps when you 
taste of the fruit of knowledge, the old story will have a new 
and better meaning.” 

She now regarded him with a new and wistful interest, no 
longer seeing him through the medium of friendship only. 
His face, thin and spiritualized, revealed his soul without 
disguise. It was the countenance of one who had won 
peace through the divine path of ministry, — healing others, 
himself had been healed. She saw also his unchanged, 
steadfast love shining like a gem over which flows a crystal 
current. Its ray was as serene as it was undimmed. It 
had taken its place as an imperishable quality in his charac- 
ter, — a place which it would retain without vicissitude un- 
less some sign from her called it into immediate and strong 
manifestation. She was in no haste to give this. Time was 
touching her kindly; the sharp, cruel outlines of the past 
were softening in the distance, and she was content to re- 
member that the treasure was hers when she was ready for 
it, — a treasure more valued daily. 

With exultation she saw him honored by the entire com- 
munity. Few days passed without new proofs of the hold 
he had gained on the deepest and best feelings of the peo- 
ple. She who once had pitied now looked up to him as 
the possessor of that manhood which the most faultless 
outward semblance can only suggest. 

Love is a magician at whose touch the plainest features 
take on new aspects. Helen’s face had never been plain. 
Even in its anguish it had produced in beholders the pro- 


96 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

found commiseration which is more readily given when 
beauty is sorrowful. Now that a new life at heart was ex- 
pressing itself, Martine, as well as others, could not fail to 
note the subtile changes. While the dewy freshness of her 
girlish bloom was absent, the higher and more womanly 
qualities were now revealing themselves. Her nature had 
been deepened by her experiences, and the harmony of her 
life was all the sweeter for its minor chords. 

To Martine she became a wonderful mystery, and he al- 
most worshipped the woman whose love he believed buried 
in an unknown grave, but whose eyes were often so strangely 
kind. He resumed his old life, but no longer brooded at 
home, when the autumn winds began to blow. He recog- 
nized the old danger and shunned it resolutely. If he could 
not beguile his thoughts from Helen, it was but a step to 
her home, and her eyes always shone with a luminous wel- 
come. Unless detained by study of the legal points of some 
case in hand, he usually found his way over to the Kemble 
fireside before the evening passed, and his friends encour- 
aged him to come when he felt like it. The old banker 
found the young man exceedingly companionable, especially 
in his power to discuss intelligently the new financial condi- 
tions into which the country was passing. Helen would 
smile to herself as she watched the two men absorbed in 
questions she little understood, and observed her mother 
nodding drowsily over her knitting. The scene was so 
peaceful, so cheery, so hopeful against the dark background 
of the past, that she could not refrain from gratitude. Her 
heart no longer ached with despairing sorrow, and the anx- 
ious, troubled expression had faded out of her parents’ 
faces. 

Yes,” she would murmur softly to herself, “ Albert was 
right ; the bloody war has ceased, and the happy days of 


FOUND YET LOST. 


97 


peace are coming. Heaven has blessed him and made his 
memory doubly blessed, in that he had the heart to wish 
them to be happy, although he could not live to see them. 
Unconsciously he took the thorns out of the path which led 
to his friend and mine. How richly father enjoys Hobart’s 
companionship ! He will be scarcely less happy — when he 
knows — than yonder friend, who is such a very scrupulous 
friend. Indeed, how either is ever going to know I scarcely 
see, unless I make a formal statement.” 

Suddenly Martine turned, and caught sight of her 
expression. 

All I have for your thoughts ! What would n’t I give 
to know them ! ” 

Her face became rosier than the firelight warranted as she 
laughed outright and shook her head. 

No matter,” he said * “ I am content to hear you laugh 
like that.” 

“ Yes, yes,” added the banker ; “ Helen’s laugh is sweeter 
to me than any music I ever heard. Thank God ! we all 
can laugh again. I am getting old, and in the course of 
nature must soon jog on to the better country. When that 
time comes, the only music I want to hear from earth is 
good, honest laughter.” 

Now, papa, hush that talk right away,” cried Helen, 
with glistening eyes. 

‘‘What ’s the matter? ” Mrs. Kemble asked, waking up. 

“ Nothing, my dear, only it ’s time for us old people to go 
to bed.” 

“ Well, I own that it would be more becoming to sleep 
there than to reflect so unfavorably on your conversation. 
Of late years talk about money matters always puts me to 
sleep.” 

“ That was n’t the case, was it, my dear, when we tried to 
7 


98 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


Stretch a thousand so it would reach from one January to 
another? ” 

I remember,” she replied, smiling and rolling up her 
knitting, that we sometimes had to suspend specie pay- 
ments. Ah, well, we were happy.” 

When left alone, it was Helen’s turn to say, Now your 
thoughts are wool-gathering. You don’t see the fire when 
you look at it that way.” 

“No, I suppose not,” replied Martine. “ I ’ll be more 
frank than you. Your mother’s words, ‘ We were happy,’ 
left an echo in my mind. How experience varies ! It is 
pleasant to think that there are many perfectly normal, 
happy lives like those of your father and mother.” 

“That’s one thing I like in you, Hobart. You are so 
perfectly willing that others should be happy.” 

“ Helen, I agree with your father. Your laugh was music, 
the sweetest I ever heard. I ’m more than willing that you 
should be happy. Why should you not be ? I have always 
felt that what he said was true, — what he said about the 
right to laugh after sorrow, — but it never seemed so true 
before. Who could wish to leave blighting sorrow after 
him? Who could sing in heaven if he knew that he had 
left tears which could not be dried on earth?” 

“You could n’t,” she replied with bowed head. 

“ Nor you, either ; nor the brave man who died, to whom 
I only do justice in believing that he would only be happier 
could he hear your laugh. Your father’s wholesome, hearty 
nature should teach us to banish every morbid tendency. 
Let your heart grow as light as it will, my friend. Your 
natural impulses will not lead you astray. Good-night.” 

“You feel sure of that?” she asked, giving him a hand 
that fluttered in his, and looking at him with a soft fire in 
her eyes. 


FOUND YET LOST, 


99 


Oh, Helen, how distractingly beautiful you are ! You 
are blooming again like your Jack- roses when the second 
growth pushes them into flower. There ; I must go. If 
I had a stone in my breast instead of a heart — Good- 
night. I won’t be weak again.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

MORE THAN REWARD. 

TT ELEN KEMBLE’S character was simple and direct. 

^ She was one who lived vividly in the passing hour, 
and had a greater capacity for deep emotions than for re- 
taining them. The reputation for constancy is sometimes 
won by those incapable of strong convictions. A scratch 
upon a rock remains in all its sharpness, while the furrow 
that has gone deep into the heart of a field is eventually 
almost hidden by a new flowering growth. The truth was 
fully exemplified in Helen’s case; and a willingness to 
marry her lifelong lover, prompted at first by a spirit of 
self-sacrifice, had become, under the influence of daily 
companionship, more than mere assent. While gratitude 
and the wish to see the light of a great, unexpected joy 
come into his eyes remained her chief motives, she had 
learned that she could attain a happiness herself, not hoped 
for once, in making him happy. 

He was true to his word, after the interview described in 
the preceding chapter. He did not consciously reveal the 
unappeased hunger of his heart, but her intuition was never 
at fault a moment. 

One Indian-summer-like morning, about the middle of 


lOO TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

October, he went over to her home and said, Helen, 
what do you say to a long day’s outing? The foliage is at 
its brightest, the air soft as that of June. Why not store 
up a lot of this sunshine for winter use?” 

Yes, Helen, go,” urged her mother. I can attend to 
everything.” 

“ A long day, did you stipulate? ” said the girl, in ready 
assent ; “ that means we should take a lunch. I don’t 
believe you ever thought of that.” 

‘‘ We could crack nuts, rob apple-orchards, or if driven 
to extremity, raid a farm-house.” 

“You have heard too much from the soldiers about 
living off the country. I ’d rather raid mamma’s cupboard 
before we start. I ’ll be ready as soon as you are.” 

He soon appeared in his low, easy phaeton ; and she 
joined him with the presentiment that there might be even 
greater gladness in his face by evening than it now ex- 
pressed. While on the way to the brow of a distant hill 
which would be their lunching place, they either talked with 
the freedom of old friends or lapsed into long silences. 

At last he asked, “ Is n’t it a little odd that when with 
you the sense of companionship is just as strong when 
you are not talking?” 

“ It ’s a comfort you are so easily entertained. Don’t 
you think I ’m a rather moderate talker for a woman? ” 

“ Those that talk the most are often least entertaining. 
I ’ve thought a good deal about it, — the unconscious in- 
fluence of people on one another. I don’t mean influence 
in any moral sense, but in the power to make one comfort- 
able or uncomfortable, and to produce a sense of restful- 
ness and content or to make one ill at ease and nervously 
desirous of escape.” 

“ And you have actually no nervous desire to escape, no 


FOUND YET LOST. 


lOI 


castings around in your mind for an excuse to turn around 
and drive home ? ” 

“No one could give a surer answer to your question than 
yourself. I Ve been thinking of something pleasanter than 
my enjoyment.” 

“WelK?” 

“ That your expression has been a very contented one 
during the last hour. I am coming to believe that you can 
accept my friendship without effort. You women are all 
such mysteries ! One gets hold of a clew now and then. 
I have fancied that if you had started out in the spirit of 
self-sacrifice that I might have a pleasant time, you would 
be more conscious of your purpose. Even your tact might 
not have kept me from seeing that you were exerting 
yourself ; but the very genius of the day seems to possess 
you. Nature is not exerting herself in the least. No 
breath of air is stirring ; all storms are in the past or the 
future. With a smile on her face, she is just resting in 
serene content, as you were, I hope. She is softening and 
obscuring everything distant by an orange haze, so that the 
sunny present may be all the more real. Days like these 
will do you good, especially if your face and manner reveal 
that you can be as truly at rest as Nature.” 

“Yet what changes may soon pass over the placid 
scene ! ” 

“ Yes, but don’t think of them.” 

“Well, I won’t — not now. Yes, you are becoming 
very penetrating. I am not exerting myself in the least to 
give you a pleasant time. I am just selfishly and lazily 
content.” 

“ That fact gives me so much more than content that it 
makes me happy.” 

“ Hobart, you are the most unselfish man I ever knew.” 


102 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ Nonsense ! ” 

They had reached their picnic-ground, — the edge of a 
grove whose bright-hued foliage still afforded a grateful 
shade. The horse was unharnessed and picketed so that 
he might have a long range for grazing. Then Martine 
brought the provision basket to the foot of a great oak, and 
sat down to wait for Helen, who had wandered away in 
search of wild flowers. At last she came with a handful of 
late-blooming closed gentians. 

I thought these would make an agreeable feature in 
your lunch.” 

Oh, you are beginning to exert yourself.” 

“Yes, I have concluded to, a little. So must you, to 
the extent of making a fire. The rest will be woman’s 
work. I propose to drink your health in a cup of coffee.” 

“ Ah, this is unalloyed,” he cried, sipping it later on. 

“The coffee? ” 

“ Yes, and everything. We don’t foresee the bright days 
any more than the dark ones. I did not dream of this in 
Virginia.” 

“You are easily satisfied. The coffee is smoky, the 
lunch is cold, winter is coming, and — ” 

“And I am very happy,” he said. 

“ It would be a pity to disturb your serenity.” 

“ Nothing shall disturb it to-day. Peace is one of the 
rarest experiences in this world. I mean only to remember 
that our armies are disbanded and that you are at rest, like 
Nature.” 

She had brought a little book of autumn poems, and 
after lunch read to him for an hour, he listening wdth the 
same expression of quiet satisfaction. As the day declined, 
she shivered slightly in the shade. He immediately arose 
and put a shawl around her. 


FOUND YET LOST. 


103 


You are always shielding me,” she said gently. 

One can do so little of that kind of thing,” he replied, 
“ not much more than show intent.” 

''Now you do yourself injustice.” After a moment’s 
hesitancy she added, " I am not quite in your mood to-day, 
and even Nature, as your ally, cannot make me forget or 
even wish to forget.” 

" I do not wish you to forget, but merely cease to remem- 
ber for a little while. You say Nature is my ally. Listen : 
already the wind is beginning to sigh in the branches over- 
head. The sound is low and mournful, as if full of regret 
for the past and forebodings for the future. There is a 
change coming. All that I wished or could expect in you 
was that this serene, quiet day would give you a respite, — 
that complete repose in which the wounded spirit is more 
rapidly healed and strengthened for the future.” 

" Have you been strengthened ? Have you no fears for 
the future? ” 

"No fears, Helen. My life is strong in its negation. 
The man who is agitated by hopes and fears, who is doomed 
to disappointments, is the one who has not recognized his 
limitations, who has not accepted well-defined conditions.” 

" Hobart, I ’m going to put you on your honor now. 
Remember, and do not answer hastily,” and her gaze 
into his face was searching. Although quiet and per- 
fectly self- controlled, the rich color rhounted to her very 
brow. 

" Well, Helen,” he asked wonderingly. 

" Imagine it possible,” she continued with the same earn- 
est gaze, " that you were a woman who has loved as I have 
loved, and lost as I have. The circumstances are all known, 
and you have only to recall them. If a man had loved you 
as you have loved me — ” 


104 taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ But, Helen, can you not believe in a love so strong that 
it does not ask — ” 

By a gesture she checked him and repeated, “ But if a 
man had loved you as you have loved me, — remember 
now, on your honor, — would you permit him to love with 
no better reward than the consciousness of being a solace, 
a help, a sort of buffer between you and the ills of life? ” 

‘‘ But, Helen, I am more than that ; I am your friend.” 

“ Indeed you are, the best a woman ever had, or I could 
not speak as I am doing. Yet what I say is true. From 
the first it has been your sleepless aim to stand between me 
and trouble. What have I ever done for you? ” 

In giving me your friendship — ” 

Again she interrupted him, saying, That virtually means 
giving you the chance for continued self-sacrifice. Any man 
or woman in the land would give you friendship on such 
terms, your terms with me. But you do not answer my 
question ; yet you have answered it over and over again. 
Were you in my place with your unselfish nature, you could 
not' take so very much without an inevitable longing to return 
all in your power.” 

He was deeply agitated. Burying his face in his hands, 
he said hoarsely, “ I must not look at you, or my duty may 
be too hard. Ah, you are banishing peace and serenity now 
with a vengeance ! I recognize your motive, — whither your 
thoughts are tending. Your conscience, your pity, your 
exaggerated gratitude are driving you to contemplate a self- 
sacrifice compared with which mine is as nothing. Yet the 
possibility of what you suggest is so sweet, so — oh, it is 
like the reward of heaven for a brief life ! ” Then he bowed 
his head lower and added slowly, as if the words were forced 
from him, “ No, Helen, you shall not reward me. I cannot 
take as pay, or ‘ return,’ as you express it, the reward that 




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FOUND YET LOST. 


105 


you are meditating. I must not remember in after years 
that my efforts in your behalf piled up such a burdensome 
sense of obligation that there was but one escape from it.” 

She came to his side, and removing his hands from his 
face, retained one of them as she said gently, Hobart, I 
am no longer a shy girl. I have suffered too deeply, I have 
learned too thoroughly how life may be robbed of happi- 
ness, and for a time, almost of hope, not to see the folly of 
letting the years slip away, unproductive of half what they 
might yield to you and me. I understand you ; you do not 
understand me, probably because your ideal is too high. 
You employed an illustration in the narrowest meaning. Is 
heaven given only as a reward ? Is not every true gift an ex- 
pression of something back of the gift, more than the gift? ” 

“ Helen ! ” 

“ Yes, Hobart, in my wish to make you happier I am not 
bent on unredeemed self-sacrifice. You have been the most 
skilful of wooers.” 

“ And you are the divinest of mysteries. How have I 
wooed you? ” 

“ By not wooing at all, by taking a course which com- 
pelled my heart to plead your cause, by giving unselfish de- 
votion so unstintedly that like the rain and dew of heaven, 
it has fostered a new life in my heart, different from the old, 
yet sweet, real, and precious. I have learned that I can be 
happier in making you happy. Oh, I shall be no martyr. 
Am I inconstant because time and your ministry have healed 
the old wound, — because the steady warmth and glow of 
your love has kindled mine? ” 

He regarded her with a gaze so rapt, so reverent, so ex- 
pressive of immeasurable gratitude that her eyes filled with 
tears. I think you do understand me,” she whispered. 

He kissed her hand in homage as he replied, “A joy 


I06 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


like this is almost as hard to comprehend at first as an 
equally great sorrow. My garden teaches me to understand 
you. A perfect flower- stalk is suddenly and rudely broken. 
Instead of dying, it eventually sends out a little side-shoot 
which gives what bloom it can.” 

“ And you will be content with what it can give? ” 

“ I shall be glad with a happiness which almost terrifies 
me. Only God knows how I have longed for this.” 

That evening the old banker scarcely ceased rubbing his 
hands in general felicitation, while practical, housewifely 
Mrs. Kemble already began to plan what she intended to 
do toward establishing Helen in the adjoining cottage. 

Now that Martine believed his great happiness possible, 
he was eager for its consummation. At his request the ist 
of December was named as the wedding day. “ The best 
that a fireside and evening lamp ever suggested will then 
come true to me,” he urged. ‘‘ Since this can be, life is too 
short that it should not be soon.” 

Helen readily yielded. Indeed, they were all so absorbed 
in planning for his happiness as to be oblivious of the rising 
storm. When at last the girl went to her room, the wind 
sighed and wailed so mournfully around the house as to pro- 
duce a feeling of depression and foreboding. 


CHAPTER VH. 


YANKEE BLANK. 



HE wild night storm which followed the most memora- 


ble day of his life had no power to depress Martine. 
In the wavy flames and glowing coals of his open fire he 
saw heavenly pictures of the future. He drew his mother’s 


FOUND YET LOST 


107 

low chair to the hearth, and his kindled fancy placed Helen 
in it. Memory could so reproduce her lovely and familiar 
features that her presence became almost a reality. In a 
sense he watched her changing expression and heard her 
low, mellow tones. The truth that both would express an 
affection akin to his own grew upon his consciousness like 
the incoming of a sun-lighted tide. The darkness and 
storm without became only the background of his pictures, 
enhancing every prophetic representation. The night passed 
in ecstatic waking dreams of all that the word “ home ” 
suggests when a woman, loved as he loved Helen, was its 
architect. 

The days and weeks which followed were filled with a 
divine enchantment ; the prosaic world was transfigured ; 
the intricacies of the law were luminous with the sheen of 
gold, becoming the quartz veins from which he would mine 
wealth for Helen ; the plants in his little rose-house were 
cared for with caressing tenderness because they gave buds 
which would be worn over the heart now throbbing for him. 
Never did mortal know such unalloyed happiness as blessed 
Martine, as he became daily more convinced that Helen 
was not giving herself to him merely from the promptings 
of compassion. 

At times, when she did not know he was listening, he 
heard her low, sweet laugh ; and it had a joyous ring and 
melody which repeated itself like a haunting refrain of 
music. He would say smilingly, It is circumstantial evi- 
dence, equivalent to direct proof.” 

Helen and her mother almost took possession of his house 
while he was absent at his office, refurnishing and transform- 
ing it, yet retaining with reverent memory what was essen- 
tially associated with Mrs. Martine. The changing aspects 
of the house did not banish the old sense of familiarity, but 


I08 TAKEN ALIVE : AND OTHER STORIES. 


were rather like the apple-tree in the corner of the garden 
when budding into new foliage and flower. The banker’s 
purse was ever open for all this renovation, but Martine 
jealously persisted in his resolve to meet every expense him- 
self. Witnessing his gladness and satisfaction, they let him 
have his way, he meanwhile exulting over Helen’s absorbed 
interest in the adornment of her future home. 

The entire village had a friendly concern in the approach- 
ing wedding ; and the aged gossips never tired of saying, “ I 
told you so,” believing that they understood precisely how 
it had all come about. Even Mrs. Nichol acquiesced with 
a few deep sighs, assuring herself, I suppose it ’s natural. 
I ’d rather it was Bart Martine than anybody else.” 

A few days before the ist of December, Martine received 
a telegram from an aged uncle residing in a distant State. 
It conveyed a request hard to comply with, yet he did not 
see how it could be evaded. The despatch was delivered 
in the evening while he was at the Kembles’, and its effect 
upon the little group was like a bolt out of a clear sky. It 
ran : — 

“Your cousin dangerously ill at Hospital, Washipgton. 

Go to him at once, if possible, and telegraph me to come, if 
necessary.” 

Hobart explained that this cousin had remained in the 
army from choice, and that his father, old and feeble, nat- 
urally shrank from a journey to which he was scarcely equal. 
“My hospital experience,” he concluded, “leads him to 
think that I am just the one to go, especially as I can get 
there much sooner than he. I suppose he is right. In- 
deed, I do not know of any one else whom he could call 
upon. It certainly is a very painful duty at this time.” 

“ I can’t endure to think of it,” Helen exclaimed. 


FOUND YET LOST. 


109 


It ’s a clear question of conscience, Helen,” he replied 
gently. “ Many years have passed since I saw this cousin, 
yet he, and still more strongly his father, have the claims of 
kinship. If anything should happen which my presence 
could avert, you know we should both feel bad. It would 
be a cloud upon our happiness. If this request had come 
before you had changed everything for me, you know I 
would have gone without a moment’s hesitation. Very 
gratitude should make me more ready for duty ; ” yet he 
sighed deeply. 

** But it may delay the wedding, for which the invitations 
have gone out,” protested Mrs. Kemble. 

“ Possibly it may, if my cousin’s life is in danger.” Then, 
brightening up, he added, “ Perhaps I shall find that I can 
leave him in good care for a short time, and then we can 
go to Washington on our wedding trip. I would like to 
gain associations with that city different from those I now 
have.” 

Come now,” said the banker, hopefully, “ if we must 
face this thing, we must. The probabilities are that it will 
turn out as Hobart says. At worst it can only be a sad in- 
terruption and episode. Hobart will be better satisfied in 
the end if he does what he now thinks his duty.” 

‘‘ Yours is the right view,” assented the young man, firmly. 
“ I shall take the midnight train, and telegraph as soon as I 
have seen my cousin and the hospital surgeon.” 

He went home and hastily made his preparations ; then, 
with valise in hand, returned to the Kembles’. The old 
people bade him God-speed on his journey, and consid- 
erately left him with his affianced. 

“ Hobart,” Helen entreated, as they were parting, “ be 
more than ordinarily prudent. Do not take any risks, even 
the most trivial, unless you feel you must. Perhaps I ’rn 


no TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


weak and foolish, but I ’m possessed with a strange, nervous 
dread. This sudden call of duty — for so I suppose I must 
look upon it — seems so inopportune;” and she hid her 
tears on his shoulder. 

“ You are taking it much too seriously, darling,” he said, 
gently drawing her closer to him. 

Yes, my reason tells me that I am. You are only going 
on a brief journey, facing nothing that can be called danger. 
Yet I speak as I feel — I cannot help feeling. Give me 
glad reassurance by returning quickly and safely. Then 
hereafter I will laugh at forebodings.” 

“ There, you need not wait till I reach Washington. You 
shall hear from me in the morning, and I will also telegraph 
when I have opportunity on my journey.” 

“ Please do so, and remember that I could not endure to 
have my life impoverished again.” 

Late the following evening, Martine inquired his way to 
the bedside of his cousin, and was glad indeed to find him 
convalescent. His own experienced eyes, together with the 
statement of the sick man and wardmaster, convinced him 
that the danger point was well passed. In immense relief 
of mind he said cheerily, “ I will watch to-night ; ” and so 
it was arranged. 

His cousin, soothed and hushed in his desire to talk, 
soon dropped into quiet slumber, while Martinets thronging 
thoughts banished the sense of drowsiness. A shaded lamp 
burned near, making a circle of light and leaving the rest of 
the ward dim and shadowy. The scene was very familiar, 
and it was an easy effort for his imagination to place in 
the adjoining cots the patients with whom, months before, 
he had fought the winning or losing battle of life. While 
memory sometimes went back compassionately to those suf- 
ferers, his thoughts dwelt chiefly upon the near future, with 


FOUND YET LOST 


III 


its certainty of happiness, — a happiness doubly appreciated 
because his renewed experience in the old conditions of his 
life made the home which awaited him all the sweeter from 
contrast. He could scarcely believe that he was the same 
man who in places like this had sought to forget the pain 
of bereavement and of denial of his dearest wish, — he who 
in the morning would telegraph Helen that the wedding 
need not even be postponed, nor any change made in their 
plans. 

The hours were passing almost unnoted, when a patient be- 
yond the circle of light feebly called for water. Almost me- 
chanically Hobart rose to get it, when a man wearing 
carpet slippers and an old dressing-gown shuffled noise- 
lessly into view. 

Captain Nichol ! ” gasped Martine, sinking back, faint 
and trembling, in his chair. 

The man paid no attention, but passed through the 
circle of light to the patient, gave him a drink, and turned. 
Martine stared with the paralysis of one looking upon an 
apparition. 

When the figure was opposite to him, he again ejaculated 
hoarsely, “ Captain Nichol ! ” 

The form in slippers and gray ghostly dressing-gown 
turned sleepy eyes upon him without the slightest sign of 
recognition, passed on, and disappeared among the shad- 
ows near the wardmaster’s room. 

A blending of relief and fearful doubt agitated Martine. 
He knew he had been wide awake and in the possession 
of every faculty, — that his imagination had been playing 
him no tricks. He was not even thinking of Nichol at the 
time ; yet the impression that he had looked upon and 
spoken to his old schoolmate, to Helen’s dead lover, had 
been as strong as it was instantaneous. When the man 


II2 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


had turned, there had been an unnatural expression, which 
in a measure dispelled the illusion. After a moment of 
thought which scorched his brain, he rose and followed the 
man’s steps, and was in time to see him rolling himself in 
his blanket on the cot nearest the door. From violent 
agitation. Marline unconsciously shook the figure outlined 
in the blanket roughly, as he asked, “ What ’s your name ? ” 
Yankee Blank, doggone yer ! Kyant you wake a feller 
’thout yankin’ ’im out o’ baid? What yer want?” 

“Great God!” muttered Hobart, tottering back to his 
seat beside his sleeping cousin, “was there ever such a 
horrible, mocking suggestion of one man in another? 
Yankee Blank — what a name 1 Southern accent and 
vernacular, yet Nichol’s voice ! Such similarity combined 
with such dissimilarity is like a nightmare. Of course it 's 
not Nichol. He was killed nearly two years ago. I ’d be 
more than human if I could wish him back now; but 
never in my life have I been so shocked and startled. This 
apparition must account for itself in the morning.” 

But he could not wait till morning ; he could not control 
himself five minutes. He felt that he must banish that 
horrible semblance of Nichol from his mind by convincing 
himself of its absurdity. 

He waited a few moments in order to compose his 
nerves, and then returned. The man had evidently gone 
to sleep. 

“ What a fool I am ! ” Marline again muttered. “ Let 
the poor fellow sleep. The fact that he does n’t know me 
is proof enough. The idea of wanting any proof I I can 
investigate his case in the morning, and, no doubt, in broad 
light that astonishing suggestion of Nichol will disappear,” 

He was about to turn away when the patient who had 
called for water groaned slightly. As if his ears were as 


FOUND YET LOST. 


II3 

sensitive to such sounds as those of a mother who hears 
her child even when it stirs, the man arose. Seeing Martine 
standing by him, he asked in slight irritation, “ What yer 
want ? Why kyant yer say what yer want en have done 
’th it? Lemme ’tend ter that feller yander firs’. We uns 
don’t want no mo’ stiffs ; ” and he shuffled with a peculiar, 
noiseless tread to the patient whose case seemed on his 
mind. Martine followed, his very hair rising at the well- 
remembered tones and the mysterious principle of identity 
again revealed within the circle of light. 

This is simply horrible ! ” he groaned inwardly, and 
I must have that man account for himself instantly.” 

Now I ’ll ’tend ter yer, but yer mout let a feller sleep 
when he kin.” 

Don’t you know me?” faltered Martine, overpowered. 

Naw.” 

Please tell me your real name, not your nickname.” 

‘‘ Ain’ got no name ’cept Yankee Blank. What ’s the 
matter with yer, anyhow?” 

Did n’t you ever hear of Captain Nichol? ” 

“Reckon not. Mout have. I’ve nussed mo’ cap’ins 
than I kin reckerlect.” 

“Are you a hospital nurse?” 

“ Sorter ’spect I am. That ’s what I does, anyhow. 
Have you anything agin it ? Don’t yer come ’ferin’ round 
with me less yer a doctor, astin’ no end o’ questions. Air 
you a new doctor?” 

“ My name is Hobart Martine,’" the speaker forced him- 
self to say, expecting fearfully a sign of recognition, for 
the impression that it was Nichol grew upon him every 
moment, in spite of apparent proof to the contrary. 

“ Hump ! Hob’t Ma’tine. Never yeared on yer. Ef 
yer want ter chin mo’ in the mawnin’, I ’ll be yere.” 

8 


1 14 TAKEN AL/FE: AND OTHER STORIES. . 

Wait a moment, Yan — " 

Yankee Blank, I tole yer.” 

“ Well, here ’s a dollar for the trouble I ’m making you,” 
and Martine’s face flushed with shame at the act, so divided 
was his impression about the man. 

Yankee Blank took the money readily, grinned, and said, 
‘‘ Now I ’ll chin till mawnin’ ef yer wants hit.” 

“ I won’t keep you long. You remind me of — of — 
well, of Captain Nichol.” 

He must ’a’ been a cur’ous chap.. Folks all say I ’m a 
cur’ous chap.” 

“ Won’t you please tell me all that you can remember 
about yourself ? ” 

“ ’T ain’t much. Short boss soon curried. Alius ben in 
hospitals. Had high ole jinks with a wound on my haid. 
Piece o’ shell, they sez, cut me yere,” and he pointed to 
a scar across his forehead. “ That ’s what they tole me. 
Lor’ ! I could n’t mek much out o’ the gibberish I firs’ 
year, en they sez I talked gibberish too. But I soon got 
the hang o’ the talk in the hospital. Well, ez I wuz sayin’, 
I ’ve alius been in hospitals, firs’ one, then anuther. I got 
well, en the sojers call me Yankee Blank en set me waitin’ 
on sick uns en the wounded. That ’s what I ’m a-doin’ 
now.” 

You were in Southern hospitals? ” 

I reckon. They called the place Richman.” 

“ Why did you come here ? ” 

“ Kaze I wuz bro’t yere. They said I was ’changed.” 

Exchanged, was n’t it? ” 

“ Reckon it was. Anyhow I wuz bro’t yere with a lot 
o’ sick fellers. I wuz n’t sick. For a long time the doctors 
kep’ a-pesterin’ me with questions, but they lemme ’lone 
now. I ’spected you wuz a new doctor, en at it agin.” 


FOUND YET LOST 


II5 

Don’t you remember the village of Alton ” 

The man shook his head. 

** Don’t you — ” and Martine’s voice grew husky — don’t 
you remember Helen Kemble?” 

** A woman?” 

« Yes.” 

Never yeared on her. I only reckerlect people I ’ve 
seen in hospitals. Women come foolin’ roun’ some days, but 
Lor’ ! I kin beat any on ’em teckin’ keer o’ the patients ; en 
wen they dies, I kin lay ’em out. You ast the wardmaster 
ef I kyant lay out a stiff with the best o’ ’em.” 

‘‘That will do. You can go to sleep now.” 

“ All right. Doc. I call everybody doc who asts sech a 
lot o’ questions.” He shuffled to his cot and was soon 
asleep. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

“how can I?” 

TV yT ARTINE sank into his chair again. Although the con- 
versation had been carried on in low tones, it was 
the voice of Nichol that he had heard. Closer inspection 
of the slightly disfigured face proved that apart from the 
scar on the forehead, it was the countenance of Nichol. A 
possible solution of the mystery was beginning to force 
itself in Hobart’s reluctant mind. When Nichol had fallen 
in the Wilderness, the .shock of his injury had rendered him 
senseless and caused him to appear dead to the hasty 
scrutiny of Sam and Jim Wetherby. They were terribly 
excited and had no time for close examination. Nichol 
might have revived, have been gathered up with the Con- 


Il6 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


federate wounded, and sent to Richmond. There was dire 
and tremendous confusion at that period, when within the 
space of two or three days tens of thousands were either 
killed or disabled. In a Southern hospital Nichol might 
have recovered physical health while, from injury to the 
brain, suffering complete eclipse of memory. In this case 
he would have to begin life anew, like a child, and so would 
pick up the vernacular and bearing of the enlisted men 
with whom he would chiefly associate. 

Because he remembered nothing and^knew nothing, he 
may at first have been tolerated as a cur’ous chap,” then 
employed as he had explained. He could take the place of 
a better man where men were greatly needed. 

This theory could solve the problem ; and Martine’s 
hospital experience prepared his mind to understand what 
would be a hopeless mystery to many. He was so fearfully 
excited that he could not remain in the ward. The very 
proximity to this strange being, who had virtually risen from 
the dead and appeared to him of all others, was a sort of 
torture in itself. 

What effect would this discovery have on his relations 
to Helen ? He dared not think ; yet he must think. Al- 
ready the temptation of his life was forming in his mind. 
His cousin was sleeping ; and with a wild impatience to es- 
cape, to get away from all his kind, he stole noiselessly out 
into the midnight and deserted streets. On, on he went, 
limping he knew not, cared not where, for his passion and 
mental agony drove him hither and thither like a leaf before 
a fitful gale. 

No one knows of this,” he groaned. I can still return 
and marry Helen. But oh, what a secret to carry ! ” 

Then his heart pleaded. “ This is not the lover she 
lost, — only a horrible, mocking semblance. He has lost 


FOUND YET LOST. 


II7 

his own identity; he does not even know himself — would 
not know her. Ah ! I’m not sure of that. I would be 
dead indeed if her dear features did not kindle my eyes in 
recognition. It may be that the sight of her face is the one 
thing essential to restore him. I feel this would be true were 
it my case. But how can I give her up now ? How can I ? — 
how can I? Oh, this terrible journey ! No wonder Helen 
had forebodings. She loves me; she is mine. No one else 
has so good a right. We were to be married only a few 
hours hence. Then she whom I ’ve loved from childhood 
would make my home a heaven on earth. And yet — and 
yet — ” Even in the darkness he buried his face in his 
hands, shuddered, moaned, writhed, and grated his teeth in 
the torment of the conflict. 

Hour after hour he wavered, now on the point of yielding, 
then stung by conscience into desperate uncertainty. The 
night was cold, the howling wind would have chilled him at 
another time, but during his struggle great drops of sweat 
often poured from his face. Only the eye of God saw that 
battle, the hardest that was fought and won during the war. 

At last, when well out of the city, he lifted his agonized 
eyes and saw the beautiful hues of morning tinging the east. 
Unconsciously, he repeated the sublime, creative words. 

Let there be light.” It came to him. With the vanish- 
ing darkness, he revolted finally against the thought of any 
shadows existing between him and Helen. She should 
have all the light that he had, and decide her own course. 
He had little hope that she would wed him, even if she did 
not marry Nichol in his present condition, — a condition 
probably only temporary and amenable tq skilful treatment. 

Wearily he dragged his lame foot back to a hotel in the 
populous part of the city, and obtained food and wine, for he 
was terribly exhausted. Next he telegraphed Mr. Kemble : 


IT8 taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ Arrived last evening. The wedding will have to be post- 
poned. Will explain later.” 

It ’s the best I can do now,” he muttered. “ Helen will 
think it is all due to my cousin’s illness.” Then he returned 
to the hospital and found his relative in a state of wonder- 
ment at his absence, but refreshed from a good night’s rest. 
Yankee Blank was nowhere to be seen. 

“ Hobart,” exclaimed his cousin, “ you look ill, — ten 
years older than you did last night.” 

You see me now by daylight,” was the quiet reply. “ I 
am not very well.” 

It ’s a perfect shame that I ’ve been the cause of so 
much trouble, especially when it was n’t necessary.” 

“Oh, my God ! ” thought Martine, “there was even no 
need of this fatal journey.” But his face had become grave 
and inscrutable, and the plea of ill-health reconciled his 
cousin to the necessity of immediate return. There was no 
good reason for his remaining, for by a few additional ar- 
rangements his relative would do very well and soon be able 
to take care of himself. Martine felt that he could not 
jeopardize his hard- won victory by delay, which was as tor- 
turing as the time intervening between a desperate surgical 
operation and the knowledge that it is inevitable. 

After seeing that his cousin made a good breakfast, he 
sought a private interview with the wardmaster. He was 
able to extract but little information about Yankee Blank 
more than the man had given himself. “ Doctors say he 
may regain his memory at any time, or it may be a long 
while, and possibly never,” was the conclusion. 

“ I think I know him,” said Martine. “ I will bring a 
physician from the city to consult this morning with the 
surgeon in charge.” 


FOUND YET LOST. 


19 


“ I ’m glad to hear it,” was the reply. Something would 
have to be done soon. He is just staying on here and mak- 
ing himself useful to some extent.” 

When Martine re-entered the ward, Yankee Blank ap- 
peared, grinned, and said affably, Howdy.” Alas ! a for- 
lorn, miserable hope that he might have been mistaken was 
banished from Hobart’s mind now that he saw Nichol in 
the clear light of day. The scar across his forehead and a 
change of expression, denoting the eclipse of fine, cultivated 
manhood, could not disguise the unmistakable features. 
There was nothing to be done but carry out as quickly as 
possible the purpose which had cost him so dear. 

He first telegraphed his uncle to dismiss further anxiety, 
and that his son would soon be able to visit him. Then the 
heavy-hearted man sought a physician whom he knew well 
by reputation. 

The consultation was held, and Nichol (as he may be 
more properly named hereafter) was closely questioned and 
carefully examined. The result merely confirmed previous 
impressions. It was explained, as far as explanation can be 
given of the mysterious functions of the brain, that either 
the concussion of the exploding shell or the wound from a 
flying fragment had paralyzed the organ of memory. When 
such paralysis would cease, if ever, no one could tell. The 
power to recall everything might return at any moment or it 
might be delayed indefinitely. A shock, a familiar face, 
might supply the potency required, or restoration come 
through the slow, unseen processes of nature. Martine 
believed that Helen’s face and voice would accomplish 
everything. 

He was well known to the medical authorities and had no 
difficulty in securing belief that he had identified Nichol. 
He also promised that abundant additional proof should be 


120 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

sent on from Alton, such certainty being necessary to secure 
the officer’s back pay and proper discharge from the service. 
The surgeon then addressed the man so strangely disabled, 
‘‘You know I ’m in charge of this hospital? ” 

“ I reckon,” replied Nichol, anxiously, for the brief ex- 
perience which he could recall had taught him that the 
authority of the surgeon-in-chief was autocratic. 

“ Well, first, you must give up the name of Yankee Blank. 
Your name hereafter is Captain Nichol.” 

“ All right. Doctor. I ’ll be a gin’ral ef you sez so.’* 

“ Very well ; remember your name is Captain Nichol. 
Next, you must obey this man and go with him. You must 
do just what he says in all respects. His name is Mr. 
Hobart Martine.” 

“ Yes, he tole me las’ night, Hob’t Ma’tine. He took on 
mighty cur’ous after seein’ me.” 

“ Do you understand that you are to mind, to obey him 
in all respects just as you have obeyed me?” 

“I reckon. Will he tek me to anuther hospital?” 

“ He will take you where you will be well cared for and 
treated kindly.” Having written Nichol’s discharge from 
the hospital, the surgeon turned to other duties. 

Martine informed his cousin, as far as it was essential, 
of the discovery he had made and of the duties which it im- 
posed, then took his leave. Nichol readily accompanied him, 
and with the exception of a tendency to irritation at little 
things, exhibited much of the good-natured docility ^f 
a child. Martine took him to a hotel, saw that he had a 
bath, put him in the hands of a barber, and then sent for 
a clothier. When dressed in clean linen and a dark civilian 
suit, the appearance of the man was greatly improved. 
Hobart had set his teeth, and would entertain no thought 
of compromise with his conscience. He would do by 


FOUND YET LOST 


121 


Nichol as he would wish to be done by if their relations 
were reversed. Helen should receive no greater shock 
than was inevitable, nor should Nichol lose the advantage 
of appearing before her in the outward aspect of a gentle- 
man. 

Martine then planned his departure so that he would 
arrive at Alton in the evening, — the evening of the day on 
which he was to have been married. He felt that Mr. 
Kemble should see Nichol first and hear the strange story; 
also that the father must break the news to the daughter, 
for he could not. It was a terrible journey to the poor 
fellow, for during the long hours of inaction he was com- 
pelled to face the probable results of his discovery. The 
sight of Nichol and his manner was intolerable ; and in 
addition, he was almost as much care as a child. Every- 
thing struck him as new and strange, and he was disposed 
to ask numberless questions. His vernacular, his alterna- 
tions of amusement and irritation, and the oddity of his 
ignorance concerning things which should be simple or fa- 
miliar to a grown man, attracted the attention of his fellow- 
passengers. It was with difficulty that Martine, by his stern, 
sad face and a cold, repelling manner, kept curiosity from 
intruding at every point. 

At last, with heart beating thickly, he saw the lights of 
Alton gleaming in the distance. It was a train not often 
used by the villagers, and fortunately no one had entered 
the car who knew him ; even the conductor was a stranger. 
Alighting at the depot, he hastily took a carriage, and with 
his charge was driven to the private entrance of the hotel. 
Having given the hackman an extra dollar not to mention 
his arrival till morning, he took Nichol into the dimly- 
lighted and deserted parlor and sent for the well-known 
landlord. Mr. Jackson, a bustling little man, who, between 


122 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

the gossip of the place and his few guests, never seemed to 
have a moment’s quiet, soon entered. “ Why, Mr. Mar- 
tine,” he exclaimed, “ we was n’t a-lookin’ for you yet. 
News got around somehow that your cousin was dyin’ 
in Washington and that your weddin’ was put off too — 
Why ! you look like a ghost, even in this light,” and he 
turned up the lamp. 

Martine had told Nichol to stand by a window with his 
back to the door. He now turned the key, pulled down 
the curtains, then drew his charge forward where the light 
fell clear upon his face, and asked, ‘‘Jackson, who is 
that? ” 

The landlord stared, his jaw fell from sheer astonishment, 
as he faltered, “ Captain Nichol ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Nichol, with a pleased grin, “ that ’s my new 
name ! Jes’ got it, like this new suit o’ clo’s, bes’ I ever 
had, doggoned ef they ain’t. My old name was Yankee 
Blank.” 

“ Great Scott ! ” ejaculated Jackson ; “ is he crazy? ” 

“ Look yere,” cried Nichol ; “ don’ yer call me crazy or 
I ’ll light on yer so yer won’ fergit it.” 

“ There, there ! ” said Martine, soothingly, “ Mr. Jackson 
does n’t mean any harm. He ’s only surprised to see you 
home again.” 

“ Is this home ? What ’s home ? ” 

“ It ’s the town where you were brought up. We ’ll 
make you understand about it all before long. Now you 
shall have some supper. Mr. Jackson is a warm friend of 
yours, and will see that you have a good one.” 

“ I reckon we ’ll get on ef he gives me plenty o’ fodder. 
Bring it toreckly, fer I’m hungry. Quit yer starin’, kyant 
yer?” 

“ Don’t you know me. Captain Nichol? Why, I — ” 


FOUND YET LOST 


123 


Naw. Never seed ner yeared on yer. Did I ever 
nuss yer in a hospital? I kyant reckerlect all on ’em. Get 
we uns some supper.” 

“That’s the thing to do first, Jackson,” added Martine. 
“ Show us upstairs to a private room and wait on us yourself. 
Please say nothing of this till I give you permission.” 

They were soon established in a suitable apartment, in 
which a fire was kindled. Nichol took a rocking-chair 
and acquiesced in Martin e’s going out on the pretext of 
hastening supper. 

The landlord received explanations which enabled him 
to co-operate with Martine. “ I could not,” said the latter, 
“take him to his own home without first preparing his 
family. Neither could I take him to mine for several 
reasons.” 

“ I can understand some of ’em, Mr. Martine. Why, 
great Scott! How about your marriage, now that — ” 

“ We won’t discuss that subject. The one thing for you 
to keep in mind is that Nichol lost his memory at the time 
of his wound. He don’t like to be stared at or thought 
strange. You must humor him much as you would a child. 
Perhaps the sight of familiar faces and scenes will restore 
him. Now copy this note in your handwriting and send it 
to Mr. Kemble. Tell your messenger to be sure to put it 
into the banker’s hands and no other’s,” and he tore from 
his note-book a leaf on which was pencilled the following 
words, — 

Mr. Kemble. 

Dear Sir, — A sick man at the hotel wishes to see you on 
important business. Don’t think it’s bad news about Mr. 
Martine, because it isn’t. Please come at once and oblige, 

Henry Jackson. 


124 taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


CHAPTER IX. 


SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 


HIS first day of winter, her fated wedding-day, was a 



sad and strange one to Helen Kemble. The sun was 
hidden by dark clouds, yet no snow fell on the frozen 
ground. She had wakened in the morning with a start, 
oppressed by a disagreeable yet forgotten dream. Hastily 
dressing, she consoled herself with the hope of a long letter 
from Martine, explaining everything and assuring her of his 
welfare ; but the early mail brought nothing. As the morn- 
ing advanced, a telegram from Washington, purposely de- 
layed, merely informed her that her affianced was well and 
that full information was on its way. 

He has evidently found his cousin very low, and needing 
constant care,” she had sighingly remarked at dinner. 

‘‘ Yes, Nellie,” said the banker, cheerily, “ but it is a com- 
fort he is well. No doubt you are right about his cousin, 
and it has turned out as Hobart feared. In this case it is 
well he went, for he would always have reproached himself 
if he had not. The evening mail will probably make all 


clear.” 


“ It has been so unfortunate ! ” complained Mrs. Kemble. 

If it had only happened a little earlier, or a little later ! 
To have all one’s preparations upset and one’s plans frus- 
trated is exasperating. Were it not for that journey, Helen 
would have been married by this time. People come osten- 
sibly to express sympathy, but in reality to ask questions.” 

“ I don’t care about people,” said Helen, “ but the day 
has been so different from what we expected that it ’s hard 


FOUND YET LOST 


125 

not to yield to a presentiment of trouble. It is so dark and 
gloomy that we almost need a lamp at midday.” 

Well, well,” cried hearty Mr. Kemble, “ I ’m not going 
to cross any bridges till I come to them. That telegram 
from Hobart is all we need, to date. I look at things as I 
do at a bank-bill. If its face is all right, and the bill itself 
all right, that ’s enough. You women-folks have such a lot 
of moods and tenses ! Look at this matter sensibly. Ho- 
bart was right in going. He ’s doing his duty, and soon will 
be back with mind and conscience at rest. It is n’t as if he 
were ill himself.” 

Yes, papa, that ’s just the difference ; we women feel, 
and you men reason. What you say, though, is a good 
wholesome antidote. I fear I ’m a little morbid to-day.” 

After dinner she and her mother slipped over to the ad- 
joining cottage, which had been made so pretty for her 
reception. While Mrs. Kemble busied herself here and 
there, Helen kindled a fire on the hearth of the sitting-room 
and sat down in the low chair which she knew was designed 
for her. The belief that she would occupy it daily and be 
at home, happy herself and, better far, making another, to 
whom she owed so much, happy beyond even his fondest 
hope, brought smiles to her face as she watched the flicker- 
ing blaze. 

Yes,” she murmured, I can make him happier even 
than he dreams. I know him so well, his tastes, his habits, 
what he most enjoy?, that it will be an easy task to antici- 
pate his wishes and enrich his life. Then he has been such 
a faithful, devoted friend ! He shall learn that his example 
has not been lost on me.” 

At this moment the wind rose in such a long mournful, 
human-like sigh about the house that she started up and al- 
most shuddered. When the evening mail came and brought 


126 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


no letter, she found it hard indeed not to yield to deep 
depression. In vain her father reasoned with her. ‘‘I 
know all you say sounds true to the ear,” she said, “ but not 
to my heart. I can’t help it ; but I am oppressed with a 
nervous dread of some impending trouble.” 

They passed the early hours of the evening as best they 
could, seeking to divert each other’s thoughts. It had been 
long since the kind old banker was so garrulous, and Helen 
resolved to reward him by keeping up. Indeed, she shrank 
from retiring, feeling that through the sleepless night she 
would be the prey of all sorts of wretched fancies. Never 
once did her wildest thoughts suggest what had happened, 
or warn her of the tempest soon to rage in her breast. 

Then came the late messenger with the landlord’s copied 
note. She snatched it from the bearer’s hand before he 
could ring the bell, for her straining ears had heard his step 
even on the gravel walk. Tremblingly she tore open the 
envelope in the hall without looking at the address. 

“ Mr. Jackson said how I was to give it to your father,” 
protested the messenger. 

‘^Well, well,” responded Mr. Kemble, perturbed and 
anxious, “I’m here. You can go unless there ’s an answer 
required.” 

“ Was n’t told nothin’ ’bout one,” growled the departing 
errand-boy. 

“ Give the note to me, Helen,” said her father. “ Why 
do you stare at it so?” 

She handed it to him without a word, but looked search- 
ingly in his face, and so did his wife, who had joined him. 

“ Why, this is rather strange,” he said. 

“ I think it is,” added Helen, emphatically. 

Mrs. Kemble took the note and after a moment ejaculated, 
“ Well, thank the Lord ! It is n’t about Hobart.” 


FOUND YET LOST. 


127 

No, no,” said the banker, almost irritably. We Ve all 
worried about Hobart till in danger of making fools of our- 
selves. As if people never get sick and send for relatives, 
or as if letters were never delayed ! Why, bless me ! haven’t 
we heard to-day that he was well? and hasn’t Jackson, who 
knows more about other people’s business than his own, 
been considerate enough to say that his request has nothing 
to do with Hobart? It is just as he says, some one is sick 
and wants to arrange about money matters before banking 
hours to-morrow. There, it is n’t far. I ’ll soon be back.” 

Let me go with you, father,”, pleaded Helen. I can 
stay with Mrs. Jackson or sit in the parlor till you are 
through.” 

“ Oh, no, indeed.” 

Papa, / am going with you,” said Helen, half-despe- 
rately. I don’t believe I am so troubled for nothing. 
Perhaps it ’s a merciful warning, and I may be of use to 
you.” 

Oh, let her go, father,” said his wife. “ She had better 
be with you than nervously worrying at home. I ’ll be bet- 
ter satisfied if she is with you.” 

Bundle up well, then, and come along, you silly little 
girl.” 

Nichol was too agreeably occupied with his supper to 
miss Hobart, who watched in the darkened parlor for the 
coming of Mr. Kemble. At last he saw the banker passing 
through the light streaming from a shop-window, and also 
recognized Helen at his side. His ruse in sending a note 
purporting to come from the landlord had evidently failed ; 
and here was a new complication. He was so exhausted in 
body and mind that he felt he could not meet the girl now 
without giving way utterly. Hastily returning to the room 
in which were Nichol and Jackson, he summoned the latter 


128 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

and said, “ Unfortunately, Miss Kemble is coming with her 
father. Keep your counsel ; give me a light in another pri- 
vate room ; detain the young lady in the parlor, and then 
bring Mr. Kemble to me.” 

“ Ah, glad to see you, Mr. Kemble,” said the landlord, 
a moment or two later, with reassuring cheerfulness ; you 
too. Miss Helen. That ’s right, take good care of the old 
gentleman. Yes, we have a sick man here who wants to 
see you, sir. Miss Helen, take a seat in the parlor by the 
fire while I turn up the lamp. Guess you won’t have to 
wait long.” 

“ Now, Helen,” said her father, smiling at her significantly, 

can you trust me out of your sight to go upstairs with 
Mr. Jackson?” 

Much relieved, she smiled in return and sat down to 
wait. 

‘‘Who is this man, Jackson?” Mr. Kemble asked on 
the stairs. 

“ Well, sir, he said he would explain everything.” 

A moment later the banker needed not Martine’s warn- 
ing gesture enjoining silence, for he was speechless with 
astonishment. 

“Mr. Jackson,” whispered Martine, “will you please re- 
main in the other room and look after your patient? ” 

“ Hobart,” faltered Mr. Kemble, “ in the name of all 
that’s strange, what does this mean?” 

“ It is indeed very strange, sir. You must summon all 
your nerve and fortitude to help us through. Never before 
were your strength and good strong , common-sense more 
needed. I ’ve nearly reached the end of my endurance. 
Please, sir, for Helen’s sake, preserve your self-control and 
the best use of all your faculties, for you must now advise, 
Mr. Kemble, Captain Nichol is alive,” 


FOUND YET LOST 


129 


The banker sank into a chair and groaned. “ This would 
have been glad news to me once ; I suppose it should 
be so now. But how, how can this be?” 

“ Well, sir, as you say, it should be glad news ; it will 
be to all eventually. I am placed in a very hard position ; 
but I have tried to do my duty, and will.” 

“ Why, Hobart, my boy, you look more worn than 
you did after your illness. Merciful Heaven ! what a 
complication ! ” 

A far worse one than you can even imagine. Captain 
Nichol wouldn’t know you. His memory was destroyed 
at the time of the injury. All before that is gone utterly ; ” 
and Martine rapidly narrated what is already known to the 
reader, concluding, I ’m sorry Helen came with you, and 
I think you had better get her home as soon as possible. I 
could not take him to my home for several reasons, or at 
least I thought it best not to. It is my belief that the sight of 
Helen, the tones of her voice, will restore him ; and I do not 
think it best for him to regain his consciousness of the past 
in a dwelling prepared for Helen’s reception as my wife. 
Perhaps later on, too, you will understand why I cannot 
see him there. I shall need a home, a refuge with no such 
associations. Here, on this neutral ground, I thought we 
could consult, and if necessary send for his parents to- 
night. I would have telegraphed you, but the case is so 
complicated, so difficult. Helen must be gradually pre- 
pared for the part she must take. Cost me what it may, 
Nichol must have his chance. His memory may come 
back instantly and h^recall everything to the moment of his 
injury. What could be more potent to effect this than the 
sight and voice of Helen? No one here except Jackson 
is now aware of his condition. If she can restore him, no 
one else, not even his parents, need know anything about 

9 


130 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

it, except in a general way. It will save a world of disa- 
greeable talk and distress. At any rate, this course seemed 
the best I could hit upon in my distracted condition.” 

Well, Hobart, my poor young friend, you have been tried ♦ 
as by fire,” said Mr. Kemble, in a voice broken by sympa- 
thy ; “ God help you and guide us all in this strange snarl ! 

I feel that the first thing to be done is to get Helen home. 
Such tidings as yours should be broken to her in that ref- 
uge only.” 

I agree with you most emphatically, Mr. Kemble. In 
the seclusion of her own home, with none present except 
yourself and her mother, she should face this thing and 
nerve herself to act her part, the most important of all. 
If she cannot awaken Captain Nichol’s memory, it is hard 
to say what will, or when he will be restored.” 

Possibly seeing me, so closely associated with her, may 
have the same effect,” faltered the banker. 

I doubt it ; but we can try it. Don’t expect me to 
speak while in the hallway. Helen, no doubt, is on the 
alert, and I cannot meet her to-night. I am just keeping 
up from sheer force of will. You must try to realize it. 
This discovery will change everything for me. Helen’s 
old love will revive in all-absorbing power. I ’ve faced this 
in thought, but cannot in reality now, — I simply cannot. 

It would do no good. My presence would be an embar- 
rassment to her, and I taxed beyond mortal endurance. 
You may think me weak, but I cannot help it. As soon 
as possible I must put you, and if you think best. Captain 
Nichol’s father, in charge of the situation. Jackson can 
send for his father at once if you wish.” 

“ I do wish it immediately. I can’t see my way through 
this. I would like Dr. Barnes’ advice and presence also.” 
think it would be wise, sir. The point I wish to 


FOUND YET LOST. I31 

make is that I have done about all that I now can in this 
affair. My further presence is only another complication. 
At any rate, I must have a respite, — the privilege of going 
quietly to my own home as soon as possible.” 

“ Oh, Hobart, my heart aches for you ; it just aches for 
you. You have indeed been called upon to endure a 
hundredfold too much in this strange affair. How it will 
all end God only knows. I understand you sufficiently. 
Leave the matter to me now. We will have Dr. Barnes and 
Mr. and Mrs. Nichol here as soon as can be. I suppose 
I had better see the captain a few moments and then take 
Helen home.” 

Martine led the way into the other apartment, where 
Nichol, rendered good-natured by his supper and a cigar, 
was conversing sociably with the landlord. Mr. Kemble 
fairly trembled as he came forward, involuntarily expecting 
that the man so well known to him must give some sign 
of recognition. 

Nichol paid no heed to him. He had been too long 
accustomed to see strangers coming and going to give them 
either thought or attention. 

say, Hob’t Ma’tine,” he began, ^Mon’ yer cuss me 
fer eatin’ all the supper. I ’lowed ter this Jackson, as yer 
call ’im, that yer ’d get a bite somewhar else, en he ’lowed 
yer would.” 

All right, Nichol ; I ’m glad you had a good supper.” 

“I say, Jackson, this Ma’tine ’s a cur’ous chap, — mo’ 
cur’ous than I be, I reckon. He ’s been actin’ cur’aus 
ever since he seed me in the horspital. It ’s all cur’ous. 
’Fore he come, doctors en folks was tryin’ ter fin’ out 
’bout me, en this Ma’tine ’lows he knows all ’bout me. Ef 
he wuz n’t so orful glum, he ’d be a good chap anuff, ef he 
is cur’ous. Hit ’s all a-changin’ somehow, en yet ’t is n’t. 


132 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES, 

Awhile ago nobody knowd ’bout me, en they wuz alius a- 
pesterin’ of me with questions. En now Ma’tine en you 
’low you know ’bout me, yet you ast questions jes’ the same. 
Like anuff this man yere,” pointing with his cigar to Mr. 
Kemble, who was listening with a deeply- troubled face, 
knows ’bout me too, yet wants to ast questions. I don’ 
keer ef I do say it, I had better times with the Johnnies 
that call me Yankee Blank than I ever had sence. Well, 
ole duffer [to Mr. Kemble], ast away and git yer load 
offn yer mind. I don’ like glum faces roun’ en folks jes’ 
nachelly bilin’ over with questions.” 

No, Captain Nichol,” said the banker, gravely and sadly, 
‘‘ I ’ve no questions to ask. Good-by for the present.” 

Nichol nodded a careless dismissal and resumed his 
reminiscences with Jackson, whose eager curiosity and 
readiness to laugh was much more to his mind. 

Following the noise made by closing the door, Helen’s 
voice rang up from the hall below, Papa ! ” 

“ Yes, I ’m coming, dear,” he tried to answer cheerily. 
Then he wrung Martine’s hand and whispered, Send for 
Dr. Barnes. God knows you should have relief. Tell 
Jackson also to have a carriage go for Mr. Nichol at 
once. After the doctor comes you may leave all in our 
hands. Good-by.” 

Martine heard the rustle of a lady’s dress and retired 
precipitately. 


FOUND YET LOST. 


133 


CHAPTER X. 

‘‘YOU CANNOT UNDERSTAND.” 

XX 7ITH an affectation of briskness he was far from 
feeling, Mr. Kemble came down the stairs and joined 
his daughter in the hall. He had taken pains to draw his 
hat well over his eyes, anticipating and dreading her keen 
scrutiny, but strange to say, his troubled demeanor passed 
unnoticed. In the interval of waiting Helen’s thoughts 
had taken a new turn. ‘‘ Well, papa,” she began, as they 
passed into the street, “ I am curious to know about the 
sick man. You stayed an age, but all the same I ’m glad 
I came with you. Forebodings, presentiments, and all 
that kind of thing seemed absurd the moment I saw Jack- 
son’s keen, mousing little visage. His very voice is like 
a ray of garish light entering a dusky, haunted room. 
Things suggesting ghosts and hobgoblins become ridicu- 
lously prosaic, and you are ashamed of yourself and your 
fears.” 

“ Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Kemble, yielding to irritation in 
his deep perplexity, “ the more matter-of-fact we are the 
better we ’re off. I suppose the best thing to do is just to 
face what happens and try to be brave.” 

“Well, papa, what ’s happened to annoy you to-night? 
Is this sick man going to make you trouble?” 

“ Like enough. I hope not. At any rate, he has claims 
which I must meet.” 

“Don’t you think you can meet them?” was her next 
anxious query, her mind reverting to some financial 
obligation. 


134 TAKEN /.LIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ We ’ll see. You and mother ’ll have to help me out, 
I guess. I ’ll tell you both when we get home ; ” and his 
sigh was so deep as to be almost a groan. 

“Papa,” said Helen, earnestly pressing his arm, “don’t 
worry. Mamma and I will stand by you ; so will Hobart. 
He is the last one in the world to desert one in any kind 
of trouble.” 

“ I know that, no one better ; but I fear he ’ll be in 
deeper trouble than any of us. The exasperating thing is 
that there should be any trouble at all. If it had only 
happened before — well, well, I can’t talk here in the street. 
As you say, you must stand by me, and I ’ll do the best I 
can by you and all concerned.” 

“ Oh, papa, there was good cause for my foreboding.” 

“Well, yes, and no. I don’t know. I’m at my wits’ 
end. If you ’ll be brave and sensible, you can probably do 
more than any of us.” 

“ Papa, papa, something is the matter with Hobart,” and 
she drew him hastily into the house, which they had now 
reached. 

Mrs. Kemble met them at the door. Alarmed at her hus- 
band’s troubled face, she exclaimed anxiously, “Who is 
this man? What did he want?” 

“ Come now, mother, give me a chance to get my breath. 
We ’ll close the doors, sit down, and talk it all over.” 

Mrs. Kemble and her daughter exchanged an appre- 
hensive glance and followed with the air of being prepared 
for the worst. 

The banker sat down and wiped the perspiration from 
his brow, then looked dubiously at the deeply-anxious faces 
turned toward him. “Well,” he said, “I’m going to tell 
you everything as far as I understand it. Now I want to 
see if you two can’t listen calmly and quietly and not give 


FOUND YET LOST 


135 


way to useless feeling. There ’s much to be done, and you 
especially, Helen, must be in the right condition to do it.” 

“ Oh, papa, why torture me so ? Something has hap- 
pened to Hobart. I can’t endure this suspense.” 

“ Something has happened to us all,” replied her father, 
gravely. “ Hobart has acted like a hero, like a saint ; so 
must you. He is as well and able to go about as you are. 
I ’ve seen him and talked with him.” 

“ He saw you and not me? ” cried the girl, starting up. 

Helen, I entreat, I command you to be composed and 
listen patiently. Don’t you know him well enough to be 
sure he had good reasons — ” 

“ I can’t imagine a reason,” was the passionate reply, as 
she paced the floor. Wha^ reason could keep me from 
him ? Merciful Heaven ! father, have you forgotten that I 
was to marry him to-day? Well,” she added hoarsely, 
standing before him with hands clinched in her eflbrt at 
self-restraint, “the reason?” 

“ Poor fellow ! poor fellow ! he has not forgotten it,” 
groaned Mr. Kemble. “ Well, I might as well out with it. 
Suppose Captain Nichol was not killed after all?” 

Helen sank into a chair as if struck down as Nichol had 
been himself. “ What ! ” she whispered ; and her face was 
white indeed. 

Mrs. Kemble rushed to her husband, demanding, “Do 
you mean to tell us that Captain Nichol is alive?” 

“ Yes ; that ’s just the question we ’ve got to face.” 

“ It brings up anbther question,” replied his wife, sternly. 
“ If he ’s been' alive all this time, why did he not let us 
know? As far as I can make out, Hobart has found him 
in Washington — ” 

“ Helen,” cried her father to the trembling girl, “ for 
Heaven’s sake, be calm ! ” 


136 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

He 's alive, alive ! ” she answered, as if no other thought 
could exist in her mind. Her eyes were kindling,^ the 
color coming into her face, and her bosom throbbed quickly 
as if her heart would burst its bonds. Suddenly she rushed 
to her father, exclaiming, “ He was the sick man. Oh, 
why did you not let me see him?” 

“ Well, well ! ” ejaculated Mr. Kemble, “ Hobart was right, 
poor fellow ! Yes, Helen, Captain Nichol is the sick man, 
not dangerously ill, however. You are giving ample reason 
why you should not see him yet ; and I tell you plainly 
you can’t see him till you are just as composed as I 
am.” 

She burst into a joyous, half- hysterical laugh as she ex- 
claimed, “ That ’s not asking much. I never saw you so 
moved, papa. Little wonder ! The dead is alive again ! 
Oh, papa, papa, you don’t understand me at all ! Could 
I hear such tidings composedly, — I who have wept so many 
long nights and days over his death ? I must give expres- 
sion to overwhelming feeling here where it can do no harm, 
but if I had seen him — when I do see him — ah ! he ’ll 
receive no harm from me.” 

But, Helen, think of Hobart,” cried Mrs. Kemble, in 
sharp distress. 

“ Mother, mother, I cannot help it. Albert is alive, 
alive ! The old feeling comes back like the breaking up of 
the fountains of the great deep. You cannot know, cannot 
understand ; Hobart will. I ’m sorry, sorry for him ; but 
he will understand. I thought Albert was dead ; I wanted 
to make Hobart happy. He was so good and kind and de- 
serving that I did love him in a sincere, quiet way, but not 
with my first love, not as I loved Albert. I thought my 
love was buried with him ; but it has burst the grave as he 
has. Papa, papa, let me go to him, now, now ! You say he 


FOUND YET LOST. 


137 

is sick ; it is my place to nurse him back to life. Who has 
a better right? Why do you not bring him here? ” 

Perhaps it will be best, since Helen feels so,” said Mr. 
Kemble, looking at his wife. 

“ Well, I don’t know,” she replied with a deep sigh. 

We certainly don’t wish the public to be looking on any 
more than we can help. He should be either here or at his 
own home.” 

There ’s more reason for what you say than you think,” 
Mr. Kemble began. 

‘‘There, papa,” interrupted Helen, “ I ’d be more or less 
than human if I could take this undreamed-of news quietly. 
I can see how perplexed and troubled you ’ve been, and 
how you ’ve kindly tried to prepare me ^for the tidings. 
You will find that I have strength of mind to meet all that 
is required of me. It is all simpler to me than to you, for 
in a matter of this kind the heart is the guide, indeed, the 
only guide. Think ! If Albert had come back months ago ; 
if Hobart had brought him back wounded and disabled, — 
how would we have acted ? Only our belief in his death 
led to what has happened since, and the fact of life changes 
everything back to — ” 

“ Now, Helen, stop and listen to me,” said her father, 
firmly. “ In one sense the crisis is over, and you ’ve heard 
the news which I scarcely knew how to break to you. You 
say you will have strength of mind to meet what is required 
of you. I trust you may. But it ’s time you understood the 
situation as far as I do. Mother’s words show she ’s off the 
track in her suspicion. Nichol is not to blame in any sense. 
He is deserving of all sympathy, and yet — oh, dear, it is 
such a complication ! ” and the old man groaned as he 
thought of the personality who best knew himself as Yankee 
Blank. “The fact is,” he resumed to his breathless lis- 


138 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

teners, Nichol is not ill at all physically. His mind is 
affected — ” 

Mrs. Kemble sank back in her chair, and Helen uttered a 
cry of dismay. 

“Yes, his mind is affected peculiarly. He remembers 
nothing that happened before he was wounded. You must 
realize this, Helen ; you must prepare yourself for it. His 
loss of memory is much more sad than if he had lost an 
arm or a leg. He remembers only what he has picked up 
since his injury.” 

“ Then, then, he ’s not insane ? ” gasped Helen. 

“ No, no, I should say not,” replied her father, dubiously ; 
“ yet his words and manner produce much the same effect 
as if he were, — even a stronger effect.” 

“ Oh, this is dreadful ! ” cried his wife. 

“ Dreadful indeed, but not hopeless, you know. Keep in 
mind doctors say that his memory may come back at any 
time ; and Hobart has the belief that the sight and voice of 
Helen will bring it back.” 

^‘God bless Hobart,” said Helen, with a deep breath, 
“ and God help him ! His own love inspired that belief. 
He ’s right ; I know he ’s right.” 

“ Well, perhaps he is. I don’t know. I thought Nichol 
would recognize me ; but there was n’t a sign.” 

“ Oh, papa,” cried Helen, smiling through her tears, 
“ there are some things which even your experience and 
wisdom fail in. Albert will know me. We have talked long 
enough ; now let us act.” 

“You don’t realize it all yet, Helen; you can’t. You 
must remember that Nichol regained consciousness in 
a Southern hospital. He has learned to talk and act 
very much like such soldiers as would associate with 
him.” 


FOUND YET LOST. 


139 

“ The fact that he ’s alive and that I now may restore 
him is enough, papa.” 

Well, I want Dr. Barnes present when you meet him.” 

“Certainly; at least within call.” 

“ I must stipulate too,” said Mrs. Kemble. “ I don’t 
wish the coming scenes to take place in a hotel, and under 
the eyes of that gossip, Jackson. I don’t see why Hobart 
took him there.” 

“ I do,” said Mr. Kemble, standing up for his favorite. 
“ Hobart has already endured more than mortal man ought, 
yet he has been most delicately considerate. No one but 
Jackson and Dr. Barnes know about Nichol and his condi- 
tion. I have also had Nichol’s father and mother sent for 
on my own responsibility, for they should take their share 
of the matter. Hobart believes that Helen can restore 
Nichol’s memory. This would simplify everything and save 
many painful impressions. You see, it ’s such an obscure 
trouble, and there should be no ill-advised blundering in the 
matter. The doctors in Washington told Hobart that a 
slight shock, or the sight of an object that once had the 
strongest hold upon his thoughts — well, you understand.” 

“ Yes,” said Helen, “ I do understand. Hobart is trying 
to give Albert the very best chance. Albert wrote that his 
last earthly thoughts would be of me. It is but natural that 
my presence should kindle those thoughts again. It was 
like Hobart, who is almost divine in his thoughtfulness of 
others, to wish to shield Albert from the eyes of even his 
own father and mother until he could know them, and know 
us all. He was only taken to the hotel that we all might 
understand .and be prepared to do our part. Papa, bring 
Albert here and let his father and mother come here also* 
He should be sacredly shielded in his infirmity, and given 
every chance to recover before being seen by others ; and 


140 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

please, papa, exact from Jackson a solemn promise not to 
tattle about Albert.” 

Yes, yes ; but we have first a duty to perform. Mother, 
please prepare a little lunch, and put a glass of your old 
currant wine on the tray. Hobart must not come to a cold, 
cheerless home. I ’ll go and have his old servant up and 
ready to receive him.” 

No, mamma, that is still my privilege,” said Helen, 
with a rush of tears. “ Oh, I ’m so sorry, sorry for him ! 
but neither he nor I can help or change what is, what ’s 
true.” 

When the tray was ready, she wrote and sealed these 
words : — 

God bless you, Hobart ; God reward you ! You have made 
me feel to-night that earth is too poor^ and only heaven rich 
enough to reward you. 

Helen. 


CHAPTER XI. 

MR. Kemble’s appeal. 

T T often happens that the wife’s disposition is an antidote 
to her husband’s ; and this was fortunately true of Mrs. 
Jackson. She was neither curious nor gossiping, and with 
a quick instinct that privacy was desired by Martine, gave at 
an early hour her orders to close the house for the night. 
The few loungers, knowing that she was autocratic, slouched 
off to other resorts. The man and maids of all work were 
kept out of the way, while she and her husband waited on 
their unexpected guests. After Mr. Kemble’s departure, 
the errand-boy was roused from his doze behind the stove 


FOUND YET LOST. 


I4I 

and sent for Dr. Barnes ; then Jackson wrote another note 
at Martine’s dictation, — 

Mr. William Nichol. 

Dear Sir, — A relative of yours is sick at my bouse. He 
came on the evening train. You and your wife had better come 
at once in the carriage. 

Martine retired to the room in which he had seen Mr. 
Kemble, that he might compose himself before meeting 
the physician. The sound of Helen’s voice, the mere 
proximity of the girl who at this hour was to have been his 
wife had not “ old chaos ” come again for him, were by no 
means straws ” in their final and crushing weight. Motion- 
less, yet with mind verging on distraction, he sat in the 
cold, dimly-lighted room until aroused by the voice of Dr. 
Barnes. 

“ Why, Hobart ! ” cried his old friend, starting at the 
bloodshot eyes and pallid face of the young man, “ what is 
the matter? You need me, sure enough, but why on earth 
are you shivering in this cold room at the hotel?” 

Martine again said to Jackson, ‘‘ Don’t leave him,” and 
closed the door. Then, to the physician, Dr. Barnes, 
I am ill and worn out. I know it only too well. You must 
listen carefully while I in brief tell you why you were sent 
for ; then you and others must take charge and act as you 
think best. I ’m going home. I must have rest and a 
respite. I must be by myself; ” and he rapidly began to 
sketch his experiences in Washington. 

“ Hold ! ” said the sensible old doctor, who indulged in 
only a few strong exclamations of surprise, which did not 
interrupt the speaker, “ hold ! You say you left the ward to 
think it over, after being convinced that you had discovered 
Nichol. Did you think it over quietly?” 

Quietly ! ” repeated Martine, with intense bitterness, 


142 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


Would a man, not a mummy, think over such a thing 
quietly? Judge me as you please, but I was tempted as I 
believe never man was before. I fought the Devil till 
morning.” 

I thought as much,” said the doctor, grasping Martine’s 
hand, then slipping a finger on his pulse. ‘‘ You fought on 
foot too, didn’t you?” 

Yes, I walked the streets as if demented.” 

“ Of course. That in part accounts for your exhaustion. 
Have you slept much since ? ” 

Oh, Doctor, let me get through and go home ! ” 

“ No, Hobart, you can’t get through with me till I am 
with you. My dear fellow, do you think that I don’t under- 
stand and sympathize with you ? There ’s no reason why 
you should virtually risk your life for Captain Nichol again. 
Take this dose of quinine at once, and then proceed. I 
can catch on rapidly. First answer, how much have you 
slept since?” 

The idea of sleep ! You can remedy this. Doctor, 
after my part in this affair is over. I must finish now. 
Helen may return, and I cannot meet her, nor am I equal 
to seeing Mr. and Mrs. Nichol. My head feels queer, but 
I ’ll get through somehow, if the strain is not kept up too 
long; ” and he finished in outline his story. In conclusion 
he said, You will understand that you are now to have 
charge of Nichol. He is prepared by his experience to 
obey you, for he has always been in hospitals, where the 
surgeon’s will is law. Except with physicians, he has a 
sort of rough waywardness, learned from the soldiers.” ^ 
‘‘Yes, I understand sufficiently now to manage. You 
pH^ him in my charge, then go home, and I ’ll visit you as 
soon as I can.” 

“One word more, Doctor. As far as you think best, 


FOUND YET LOST. 


143 


enjoin reticence on Jackson. If the sight of Helen re- 
stores Nichol, as I believe it will, little need ever be said 
about his present condition. Jackson would not dare to 
disobey a physician’s injunction.” 

“ Don’t you dare disobey them, either. I ’ll manage 
him too. Come.” 

Nichol had slept a good deal during the latter part of 
his journey, and now was' inclined to wakefulness, — a ten- 
dency much increased by his habit of waiting on hospital 
patients at night. In the eager and curious Jackson he had 
a companion to his mind, who stimulated in him a certain 
childlike vanity. 

“ Hello, Ma’tine,” he said, “ yer gittin’ tired o’ me, I 
reckon, yer off so much. I don’t keen This yere Jack- 
son ’s a lively cuss, en I ’low we ’ll chin till mawnin’.” 

“ Yes, Nichol, Mr. Jackson is a good friend of yours ; 
and here is another man who is more than a friend. You 
remember what the surgeon at the hospital said to 
you?” 

I reckon,” replied Nichol, anxiously. “ Hain’t I minded 
yer tetotally? ” ^ 

Yes, you have done very well indeed, — remarkably well, 
since you knew I was not a doctor. Now this man is a 
doctor, — the doctor I was to bring you to. You won’t 
have to mind me any more, buf you must mind this man. 
Dr. Barnes, in all respects, just *,as you the' doctors 
in the hospitals. As long as you obey him carefully, he 
will be very good to you.” 

Oh, I ’ll mind. Doctor,” said Nichol, rising and assum- 
ing the respectful attitude of a hospitd nurse. “We hns 
wuz soon lamed that ’t wUzn’t healthy to go agin the do^r. 
When I wuz Yankee Blank, ’fo’ I got ter be cap’n, I forgot 
ter give a Johnny a doze o’ med’cine, en I ’m doggoned ef 


144 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

the doctor did n’t mek me tek it myse’f. Gee wiz ! sech 
a time ez I had ! Hain’t give the doctors no trouble 
sence.” 

All right, Captain Nichol,” said Dr. Barnes, quietly, “ I 
understand my duties, and I see that you understand yours. 
As you say, doctors must be obeyed, and I already see that 
you won’t make me or yourself any trouble. Good-night, 
Hobart, I ’m in charge now.'’ 

“ Good-night, Doctor. Mr. Jackson, I’m sure you will 
carry out Dr. Barnes' wishes implicitly." 

Yer’d better, Jackson,’’ said Nichol, giving him a wink. 
“ A doctor kin give yer high ole jinks ef yer not keerful." 

Martine now obeyed the instinct often so powerful in the 
liuman breast as well as in dumb animals, and sought the 
covert, the refuge of his home, caring little whether he was 
to live or die. When he saw the lighted windows of Mr. 
Kemble’s residence, he moaned as if in physical pain. A 
sudden and immeasurable longing to see, to speak with 
Helen once before she was again irrevocably committed to 
Nichol, possessed him. He even went to her gate to carry 
out his impulse, then curbed himself and returned resolutely 
to his dwelling. As soon as his step was on the porch, the 
door opened and Mr. Kemble gave him the warm grasp of 
friendship. Without a word, the two men entered the 
sitting-room, sat down by the ruddy fire, and looked at 
each other, Martine with intense, questioning anxiety in 
his haggard face. The banker nodded gravely as he said. 

Yes, she knows." 

^‘It’s as I said it would be?” Martine added huskily, 
after a moment or two. 

‘'Well, my friend, she said you would understand her 
better than any one else. She wrote you this note." 

Martine’s hands so trembled that he could scarcely break 


FOUND YET LOST 


145 


the seal. He sat looking at the tear-blurred words some 
little time, and grew evidently calmer, then faltered, “ Yes, 
it ’s well to remember God at such a time. He has laid 
heavy burdens upon me. He is responsible for them, not 
I. If I break, he also will be responsible.” 

Hobart,” said Mr. Kemble, earnestly, “ you must not 
break under this, for our sake as well as your own. I have 
the presentiment that we shall all need you yet, my poor 
girl perhaps most of all. She does n’t, she can’t realize 
it. Now, the dead is alive again. Old girlish impulses 
and feelings are asserting themselves. As is natural, she is 
deeply excited ; but this tidal wave of feeling will pass, and 
then she will have to face both the past and future. I know 
her well enough to be sure she could never be happy if this 
thing wrecked you. And then, Hobart,” and the old man 
sank his voice to a whisper, “ suppose — suppose Nichol 
continues the same.” 

He cannot,” cried Martine, almost desperately. Oh, 
Mr. Kemble, don’t suggest any hope for me. My heart 
tells me there is none, that there should not be any. No, 
she loved him as I have loved her from childhood. She is 
right. I do understand her so well that I know what the 
future will be.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Kemble, firmly, as he rose, “she shall 
never marry him as he is, with my consent. I don’t feel 
your confidence about Helen’s power to restore him. I tell 
you, Hobart, I ’m in sore straits. Helen is the apple of my 
eye. She is the treasure of our old age. God knows I 
remember what you have done for her and for us in the 
past ; and I feel that we shall need you in the future. 
You ’ve become like a son to mother and me, and you must 
stand by us still. Our need will keep you up and rally you 
better than all Dr. Barnes’ medicine. I know you well 


10 


146 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

enough to know that. But take the medicine all the same ; 
and above all things, don’t give way to anything like reck- 
lessness and despair. As you say, God has imposed the 
burden. Let him give you the strength to bear it, and 
other people’s burdens too, as you have in the past. I must 
go now. Don’t fail me.” 

Wise old Mr. Kemble had indeed proved the better phy- 
sician. His misgivings, fears, and needs, combined with 
his honest affection, had checked the cold, bitter flood of 
despair which had been overwhelming Martine. The mor- 
bid impression that he would be only another complication, 
and of necessity an embarrassment to Helen and her family, 
was in a measure removed. Mere words of general condo- 
lence would not have helped him ; an appeal like that to 
the exhausted soldier, and the thought that the battle for 
him was not yet over, stirred the deep springs of his nature 
and slowly kindled the purpose to rally and be ready. He 
rose, ate a little of the food, drank the wine, then looked 
around the beautiful apartment prepared for her who was to 
have been his wife. “ I have grown weak and reckless,” he 
said. “ I ought to have known her well enough — I do 
know her so well — as to be sure that I would cloud her 
happiness if this thing destroyed me.” 


CHAFFER XH. 

^^YOU MUST REMFMBER.” 

IV/rR. AND MRS. NICHOL wonderingly yet promptly 
complied with the request for their presence, mean- 
time casting about in their minds as to the identity of the 
relative who had summoned them so unexpectedly. Mr. 


FOUND YET LOST. 


147 


Kemble arrived at the hotel at about the same moment as 
they did, and Jackson was instructed to keep the carriage in 
waiting. It was I who sent for you and your wife,” said 
the banker. Mr. Martine, if possible, would have given 
you cause for a great joy only ; but I fear it must be tem- 
pered with an anxiety which I tru^ will not be long con- 
tinued ; ” and he led the way into the parlor. 

‘‘Is it — can it be about Albert?” asked Mrs. Nichol, 
trembling, and sinking into a chair. 

“ Yes, Mrs. Nichol. Try to keep your fortitude, for per- 
haps his welfare depends upon it.” 

“ Oh, God be praised ! The hope of this never wholly 
left me, because they did n’t find his body.” 

Dr. Barnes came down at once, and with Mr. Kemble 
tried to soothe the strong emotions of the parents, while at 
the same time enlightening them as to their son’s discovery 
and condition. 

“Well,” said Mr. Nichol, in strong emphasis; “Hobart 
Martine is one of a million.” 

“ I think he ought to have brought Albert right to me 
first,” Mrs. Nichol added, shaking her head and wiping her 
eyes. “After all, a mother’s claim — ” 

“My dear Mrs. Nichol,” interrupted Dr. Barnes, “there 
was no thought of undervaluing your claim on the part of 
our friend Hobart. He has taken what he believed, and 
what physicians led him to believe was the best course to 
restore your son. Besides, Mr. Martine is a very sick man. 
Even now he needs my attention more than Captain Nichol. 
You must realize that he was to have married Miss Kemble 
to-day ; yet he brings back your son, sends for Mr. Kemble 
in order that his daughter, as soon as she can realize the 
strange truth, may exert her power. He himself has not 
seen the girl who was to have been his bride.” 


148 TAKEN ALIVE- AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ Wife, wife,” said Mr. Nichol, brokenly, “ no mortal 
man could do more for us than Hobart Martine, God bless 
him ! ” 

“ Mrs. Nichol,” began Mr. Kemble, “ my wife and Helen 
both unite in the request that you and your husband bring 
7our son at once to our house ; perhaps you would rather 
meet him in the privacy — ” 

Oh, no, no ! ” she cried, I cannot wait. Please do not 
think I am insensible to all this well-meant kindness ; but a 
mother’s heart cannot wait. He’ll know me^ — me who 
bore him and carried him on my breast.” 

“ Mrs. Nichol, you shall see him at once,” said the doc- 
tor. I hope it will be as you say ; but I ’m compelled to 
tell you that you may be disappointed. There ’s no certainty 
that this trouble will pass away at once under any one’s influ- 
ence. You and your husband come with me. Mr. Kemble, 
1 will send Jackson down, and so secure the privacy which 
you would kindly provide. I will be present, for I may be 
needed.” 

He led the way, the mother following with the impetuosity 
and abandon of maternal love, and the father with stronger 
and stranger emotions than he had ever known, but re- 
strained in a manner natural to a quiet, reticent man. They 
were about to greet one on whom they had once centred 
their chief hopes and affection, yet long mourned as dead. 
It is hard t© imagine the wild tumult of their feelings. Not 
merely by words, but chiefly by impulse, immediate action, 
could they reveal how profoundly they were moved. 

With kindly intention, as he opened the door of the 
apartment, the doctor began, “ Mr. Jackson, please leave 
us a few — ” 

Mrs. Nichol saw her son and rushed upon him, crying, 
‘‘Albert, Albert ! ” It was enough at that moment that she 


FOUND YET LOST. 


149 


recognized him ; and the thought that he would not recog- 
nize her was banished. With an intuition of heart beyond 
all reasoning, she felt that he who had drawn his life from 
her must know her and respond to nature’s first strong tie. 

In surprise, Nichol had risen, then was embarrassed to 
find an elderly woman sobbing on his breast and addressing 
him in broken, endearing words by a name utterly un- 
familiar. He looked wonderingly at his father; who stood 
near, trembling and regarding him through tear-dimmed 
eyes with an affectionate interest, impressive even to his 
limited perceptions. 

Doctor,” he began over his mother’s head, what in 
thunder does all this here mean? Me ’n’ Jackson was chin- 
nin’ comft’bly, when sud’n you uns let loose on me two 
crazy old parties I never seed ner yeared on. Never had 
folks go on so ’bout me befo’. Beats even that Hob’t 
Ma’tine,” and he showed signs of rising irritation. 

‘‘Albert, Albert ! ” almost shrieked Mrs. Nichol, “don’t 
you know me, — me^ your own mother?” 

“ Naw.” 

At the half-indignant, incredulous tone, yet more than 
all at the strange accent and form of this negative, the poor 
woman was almost beside herself. “ Merciful God ! ” she 
cried, “ this cannot be ; ” and she sank into a chair, sobbing 
almost hysterically. 

For reasons of his own. Dr. Barnes did not interfere. 
Nature in powerful manifestations was actuating the parents ; 
and he decided, now that things had gone so far, to let the 
entire energy of uncurbed emotion, combined with all the 
mysterious affinity of the closest kinship, exert its influence 
on the clogged brain of his patient. 

For a few moments Mrs. Nichol was too greatly over- 
come to comprehend anything clearly; her husband, on 


150 TAKEN AL/VE. AND OTHER STORIES. 

the other hand, was simply wrought up to his highest ca- 
pacity for action. His old instinct of authority returned, 
and he seized his son’s hand and began, “ Now, see here, 
Albert, you were wounded in your head — ” 

“ Yes, right yere,” interrupted Nichol, pointing to his 
scar. I knows all ’bout that, but I don’t like these goin’s 
on, ez ef I wuz a nachel-bawn fool, en had ter bleve all 
folks sez. I ’ve been taken in too often. When I wuz 
with the Johnnies they ’d say ter me, ‘ Yankee Blank, see 
that ar critter? That ’s a elephant.’ When I ’d call it a 
elephant, they ’d larf an’ larf till I flattened out one feller’s 
nose. I dunno nothin’ ’bout elephants ; but the critter they 
pinted at wuz a cow. Then one day they set me ter scrub- 
bin’ a nigger to mek ’im white, en all sech doin’s, till the 
head-doctor stopped the hull blamed nonsense. S’pose I 
be a cur’ous chap. I ain’t a nachel-bawn ijit. When folks 
begin ter go on, en do^en say things I kyant see through, 
then I stands off en sez, ‘ Lemme ’lone.’ The hospital 
doctors wouldn’t ’low any foolin’ with me ’tall.” 

“ I ’m not allowing any fooling with you,” said Dr. Barnes, 
firmly. “ I wish you to listen to that man and woman, and 
believe all they say. The hospital doctors would give you 
the same orders.” 

All right, then,” assented Nichol, with a sort of grimace 
of resignation. “ Fire away, old man, an’ git through with 
yer yarn so Jackson kin come back. I wish this woman 
wouldn’t take on so. Hit makes me orful oncomft’ble, 
doggoned ef hit don’t.” 

The rapid and peculiar utterance, the seemingly unfeeling 
words of his son, stung the father into an ecstasy of grief 
akin to anger. A man stood before him, as clearly recog- 
nized as his own image in a mirror. The captain was not 
out of his mind in any familiar sense of the word ; he 


FOUND YET LOST 


I51 

remembered distinctly what had happened for months past. 
He must recall, he must be made to recollect the vital truths 
of his life, on which not only his happiness but that of 
others depended. Although totally ignorant of what the 
wisest can explain but vaguely, Mr. Nichol was bent on 
restoring his son by the sheer force of will, making him 
remember by telling him what he should and must recall. 
This he tried to do with strong, eager insistence. Why, 
Albert,” he urged, ’m your father; and that’s your 
mother.” 

• Nichol shook his head and looked at the doctor, who 
added gravely, “ That ’s all true.” 

“ Yes,” resumed Mr. Nichol, with an energy and earn- 
estness of utterance which compelled attention. “ Now 
listen to reason. As I was saying, you were wounded in 
the head, and you have forgotten what happened before you 
were hurt. But you must remember, you must, indeed, or 
you will break your mother’s heart and mine too.” 

But I tell yer, I kyant reckerlect a thing befo’ I kinder 
waked up in the hospital, en the Johnnies call me Yankee 
Blank. I jes’ wish folks would lemme alone on that pint. 
Hit alius bothers me en makes me mad. How kin I recker- 
lect when I kyant? ” and he began to show signs of strong 
vexation. 

Dr. Barnes was about to interfere when Mrs. Nichol, who 
had grown calmer, rose, took her son’s hand, and said 
brokenly, “ Albert, look me in the face, your mother’s 
face, and try, try with all your heart and soul and mind. 
Don’t you remember me 

It was evident that her son did try. His brow wrinkled 
in the perplexed effort, and he looked at her fixedly for a 
moment or more ; but no magnetic current from his mother’s 
hand, no suggestion of the dear features which had bent 


152 TAK'EN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

over him in childhood and turned toward him in love and 
pride through subsequent years found anything in his 
arrested consciousness answering to her appeal. 

The effort and its failure only irritated him, and he broke 
out, Now look yere, I be as I be. What’s the use of 
all these goin’s on? Doctor, if you sez these folks are my 
father and mother, so be it. I ’m learning somethin’ new 
all the time. This ain’t no mo’ quar, I s’pose, than some 
other things. I ’ve got to mind a doctor, for I ’ve learned 
that much ef I hain’t nuthin’ else, but I want you uns to 
know that I won’t stan’ no mo’ foolin’. Doctors don’t fool 
me, en they ’ve got the po’r ter mek a feller do ez they sez, 
but other folks is got ter be keerful how they uses me.” 

Mrs. Nichol again sank into her chair and wept bitterly; 
her husband at last remained silent in a sort of inward, im- 
potent rage of grief. There was their son, alive and in 
physical health, yet between him and them was a viewless 
barrier which they could not break through. 

The strange complications, the sad thwartings of hope 
which must result unless he was restored, began to loom 
already in the future. 

Dr. Barnes now came forward and said, Captain 
Nichol, you are as you are at this moment, but you must 
know that you are not what you were once. We are trying 
to restore you to your old self. You ’d be a great deal 
better off if we succeed. You must help us all you can. 
You must be patient, and try all the time to recollect. You 
know I am not deceiving you, but seeking to help you. 
You don’t like this. That doesn’t matter. Didn’t you 
see doctors do many things in hospitals which the patients 
didn’t like?” 

“ I reckon,” replied Nichol, growing reasonable at once 
when brought on familiar ground. 


FOUND YET LOST. 


53 


^‘Well, you are my patient. I may have to do some 
disagreeable things, but they won’t hurt you. It won’t be 
like taking off an arm or a leg. You have seen that done, 
I suppose? ” 

“ You bet ! ” was the eager, proud reply. I used to 
hold the fellows when they squirmed.” 

“ Now hold yourself. Be patient and good-natured. 
While we are about it, I want to make every appeal possi- 
ble to your lost memory, and I order you to keep on trying 
to remember till I say, ‘ Through for the present.’ If we 
succeed, you ’ll thank me all the days of your life. Any- 
how, you must do as I say.” 

“ Oh, I know that.” 

“ Well, then, your name is Captain Nichol. This is Mr. 
Nichol, your father ; this lady is your mother. Call them 
father and mother when you speak to them. Always speak 
kindly and pleasantly. They ’ll take you to a pleasant home 
when I ’m through with you, and you must mind them. 
They ’ll be good to you every way.” 

Nichol grinned acquiescence and said, “ All right. 
Doctor.” 

Now you show your good sense. We ’ll have you sound 
and happy yet.” The doctor thought a moment and then 
asked, “ Mr. Nichol, I suppose that after our visit to Mr. 
Kemble, you and your wife would prefer to take your son 
home with you? ” 

Certainly,” was the prompt response. 

“ I would advise you to do so. After our next effort, 
however it results, we all will need rest and time for thought. 
Captain, remain here a few moments with your father and 
mother. Listen good-naturedly and answer pleasantly to 
whatever they may say to you. I will be back soon.” 


154 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“i’m HELEN.” 

T^R. BARNES descended the stairs to the parlor where 
Mr. Kemble impatiently awaited him. ‘‘Well?” 
said the banker, anxiously. 

“ I will explain while on the way to your house. The 
carriage is still ready, I suppose? ” to Jackson. 

“Yes,” was the eager reply; “how did he take the 
meeting of his parents?” 

“ In the main as I feared. He does not know them yet. 
Mr. Jackson, you and I are somewhat alike in one of our 
duties. I never talk about my patients. If I did, I ought 
to be drummed out of the town instead of ever being called 
upon again. Of course you feel that you should not talk 
about your guests. You can understand why the parties 
concerned in this matter would not wish to have it discussed 
in the village.” 

“ Certainly, Doctor, certainly,” replied Jackson, reddening, 
for he knew something of his reputation for gossip. “ This 
ii no ordinary case.” 

“No, it is not. Captain Nichol and his friends would 
never forgive any one who did not do right by them now. 
In about fifteen minutes or so I will return. Have the car- 
riage wait for me at Mr. Kemble’s till again wanted. You 
may go back to the captain and do your best to keep him 
wide-awake.” 

Jackson accompanied them to the conveyance and said 
to the man on the box, “ Obey all Dr. Barnes’s orders.” 

As soon as the two men were seated, the physician began, 


FOUND YET LOST. 


155 

Our first test has failed utterly ; ” and he briefly narrated 
what had occurred, concluding, “ I fear your daughter will 
have no better success. Still, it is perhaps wise to do all 
we can, on the theory that these sudden shocks may start 
up the machinery of memory. Nichol is excited ; such 
powers as he possesses are stimulated to their highest activ- 
ity, and he is evidently making a strong eflbrt to recall the 
past. I therefore now deem it best to increase the pressure 
on his brain to the utmost. If the obstruction does not 
give way, I see no other course than to employ the skill of 
experts and trust to the healing processes of time.” 

I am awfully perplexed. Doctor,” was the reply. “You 
must be firm with rne on one point, and you know your 
opinion will have great weight. Under no sentimental sense 
of duty, or even of affection, must Helen marry Nichol un- 
less he is fully restored and given time to prove there is no 
likelihood of any return of this infirmity.” 

“ I agree with you emphatically. There is no reason for 
such self-sacrifice on your daughter’s part. Nichol would 
not appreciate it. He is not an invalid, on the contrary, a 
strong, muscular man, abundantly able to take care of him- 
self under the management of his family.” 

“ He has my profound sympathy,” continued Mr. Kemble, 
“ but giving that unstintedly is a very different thing from 
giving him my only child.” 

“ Certainly. Perhaps we need not say very much to 
Miss Helen on this point at present. Unless he becomes 
his old self she will feel that she has lost him more truly 
than if he were actually dead. The only deeply-perplexing 
feature in the case is its uncertainty. He may be all right 
before morning, and he may ne\ er recall a thing that hap- 
pened before the explosion of that shell.” 

The carriage stopped, and Mr. Kemble hastily led the way 


156 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES, 

to his dwelling. Helen met them at the door. Oh, how 
long you have been ! ” she protested ; I Ve just been 
tortured by suspense.” 

Dr. Barnes took her by the hand and led her to the par- 
lor. “ Miss Helen,” he said gravely, *‘if you are not care- 
ful you will be another patient on my hands. Sad as is 
Captain Nichol’s case, he at least obeys me implicitly; 
so must you. Your face is flushed, your pulse feverish, 
and — ” 

“ Doctor,” cried the girl, “ you can’t touch the disease 
till you remove the cause. Why is he kept so long from 
me?” 

“ Helen, child, you must believe that the doctor — that 
we all — are doing our best for you and Nichol,” said Mr. 
Kemble, anxiously. “ His father and mother came to the 
hotel. It was but natural that they should wish to see him 
at once. How would we feel? ” 

Come, Helen, dear, you must try to be more calm,” 
urged the mother, gently, with her arm around her daughter’s 
neck. Doctor, can’t you give her something to quiet her 
nerves? ” 

Miss Helen, like the captain, is going to do just as I 
say, are n’t you? You can do more for yourself than I can 
do for you. Remember, you must act intelligently and co- 
operate with me. His father, and especially his mother, 
exhibited the utmost degree of emotion and made the 
strongest appeals without effect. Now we must try different 
tactics. All must be quiet and nothing occur to confuse or 
irritate him.” 

“ Ah, how little you all understand me ! The moment 
you give me a chance to act I can be as calm as you are. 
It ’s this waiting, this torturing suspense that I cannot en- 
dure. Hobart would not have permitted it. He knows, he 


FOUND YET LOST. 


157 


understands. Every effort will fail till Albert sees me. It 
will be a cause for lasting gratitude to us both that I should 
be the one to restore him. Now let me manage. My 
heart will guide me better than your science.” 

“What will you do?” inquired her father, in deep 
solicitude. 

“ See, here ’s his picture,” she replied, taking it from a 
table near, — “ the one he gave me just before he marched 
away. Let him look at that and recall himself. Then I 
will enter. Oh, I Ve planned it all ! My self-control will 
be perfect. Would I deserve the name of woman if I were 
weak or hysterical? No, I would do my best to rescue any 
man from such a misfortune, much more Albert, who has 
such sacred claims.” 

“ That ’s a good idea of yours about the photograph. 
Well, I guess I must let Nature have her own way again, only 
in this instance Ilcdvise quiet methods.” 

“ Trust me. Doctor, and you won’t regret it.” 

“ Nerve yourself then to do your best, but prepare to be 
disappointed for the present. I do not and cannot share in 
your confidence.” 

“ Of course you cannot,” she said, with a smile which 
illuminated her face into rare beauty. “ Only love and faith 
could create my confidence.” 

“ Miss Helen,” was the grave response, “ would love 
and faith restore Captain Nichol’s right arm if he had 
lost it? ” 

“ Oh, but that ’s different,” she faltered. 

“ I don’t know whether it is or not. We are experiment- 
ing. There may be a physical cause obstructing memory 
which neither you nor any one can now remove. Kindness 
only leads me to temper ^our hope.” 

“Doctor,” she said half-desperately, “it is not hope; it 


158 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

is belief. I could not feel as I do if I were to be disap- 
pointed.” 

“Ah, Miss Helen, disappointment is a very common 
experience. I must §top a moment and see one who has 
learned this truth pretty thoroughly. Then I will bring 
Nichol and his parents at once.” 

Tears filled her eyes. “ Yes, I know,” she sighed ; “ my 
heart just bleeds for him, but I cannot help it. Were I not 
sure that Hobart understands me better than any one else I 
should be almost distracted. This very thought of him 
nerves me. Think what he did for Albert from a hard 
sense of duty. Can I fail? Good-by, and please, please 
hasten.” 

Martine rose to greet the physician with a clear eye and 
a resolute face. “ Why, why ! ” cried Dr. Barnes, cheerily, 
“ you look a hundred per cent better. That quinine — ” 

“ There, Doctor, I don’t undervalue your drugs ; but Mr. 
Kemble has been to see me and appealed to me for help, — 
to still be on hand if needed. Come, I Ve had my hour 
for weakness. I am on the up-grade now. Tell me how 
far the affair has progressed.” 

“ Have n’t time, Hobart. Since Mr. Kemble’s treatment 
is so efficacious, I ’ll continue it. You will be needed, you 
will indeed, no matter how it all turns out. I won’t abandon 
my drugs, either. Here, take this.” 

Martine took the medicine as administered. “ Now 
when you feel drowsy, go to sleep,” added the doctor. 

“ Tell me one thing, — has she seen him yet? ” 

“ No ; his father and mother have, and he does not know 
them. It ’s going to be a question of time, I fear.” 

“ Helen will restore him.” 

“So she believes, or tries to. I mercifully shook her 
faith a little. Well, she feels for you, old fellow. The belief 


FOUND YET LOST. I 59 

that you understand her better than any one has great sus- 
taining power.” 

“ Say I won’t fail her ; but I entreat that you soon let me 
know the result of the meeting.” 

‘‘ I ’ll come in,” assented the doctor, as he hastily de- 
parted. Then he added sotto voce, ‘‘ If you hear anything 
more under twelve or fifteen hours, I ’m off my reckoning.” 

Re-entering the carriage, he was driven rapidly to the 
hotel. Jackson had played his part, and had easily induced 
Nichol to recount his hospital experience in the presence 
of his parents, who listened in mingled wonder, grief, and 
impotent protest. 

“ Captain, put on your overcoat and hat and come with 
me,” said the doctor, briskly. “Your father and mother 
will go with us.” 

“Good-by, Jackson,” said Nichol, cordially. “Yer a 
lively cuss, en I hopes we ’ll have a chaince to chin agin.” 

With a blending of hope and of fear, his parents followed 
him. The terrible truth of his insensibility to all that he 
should recognize and remember became only the more ap- 
palling as they comprehended it. While it lost none of its 
strangeness, they were compelled to face and to accept it as 
they could not do at first. 

“ Now, Captain,” said the doctor, after they were seated in 
the carriage, “ listen carefully to me. It is necessary that 
you recall what happened before you were wounded. I tell 
you that you must do it if you can, and you know doctors 
must be obeyed.” 

“ Look yere. Doctor, ain’t I a-tryin’ ? but I tell yer hit ’s 
like tryin’ ter lift myself out o’ my own boots.” 

“ Mind, now, I don’t say you must remember, only try 
your best. You can do that?” 

“I reckon.” 


l6o TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

‘‘ Well, you are going to the house of an old friend who 
knew you well before you were hurt. You must pay close 
heed to all she says just as you would to me. You must 
not say any rude, bad words, such as soldiers often use, but 
listen to every word she says. Perhaps you’ll know her 
as soon as you see her. Now I ’ve prepared you. I won’t 
be far off.” 

Don’t leave me. Doctor. I jes feels nachelly muxed up 
en mad when folks pester me ’bout what I kyant do.” 

‘^You must not get angry now, I can tell you. That 
would never do at all. I forbid it.” 

There, there now. Doctor, I won’t, doggone me ef I 
will,” Nichol protested anxiously. 

Mr. Kemble met them at the door, and the captain 
recognized him instantly. 

“ Why, yere ’s that sensible ole feller what did n’t want to 
ast no questions,” he exclaimed. 

“ You are right. Captain Nichol, I have no questions to 
ask.” 

‘‘ Well, ef folks wuz all like you I ’d have a comf t’ble 
time.” 

“ Come with me. Captain,” said the physician, leading 
the way into the parlor. Mr. Kemble silently ushered Mr. 
and Mrs. Nichol into the sitting-room on the opposite side 
of the hall and placed them in the care of his wife. He 
then went into the back parlor in which was Helen, now 
quiet as women so often are in emergencies. Through a 
slight opening between the sliding-doors she looked, with 
tightly clasped hands and parted lips, at her lover. At 
first she was conscious of little else except the overwhelm- 
ing truth that before her was one she had believed dead. 
Then again surged up with blinding force the old feeling 
which had possessed her when she saw him last, — when he 


FOUND YET LOST. 


i6i 


had impressed his farewell kiss upon her lips. Remember- 
ing the time for her to act was almost at hand, she became 
calm, — more from the womanly instinct to help him than 
from the effort of her will. 

Dr. Barnes said to Nichol, “ Look around. Don’t you 
think you have seen this room before ? Take your time and 
try to remember.” 

The captain did as he was bidden, but soon shook his 
head. “ Hit ’s right purty, but I don’t reckerlect.” 

‘‘ Well, sit down here, then, and look at that picture. 
Who is it?” 

Why hit’s me, — me dressed up as cap’n,” ejaculated 
Nichol, delightedly. 

Yes, that was the way you looked and dressed before 
you were wounded.” 

How yer talk ! This beats anythin’ I ever yeared from 
the Johnnies.” 

“ Now, Captain Nichol, you see we are not deceiving you. 
We called you captain. There ’s your likeness, taken be- 
fore you were hurt and lost your memory, and you can see 
for yourself that you were a captain. You must think 
how much there is for you to try to remember. Before you 
went to the war, long before you got hurt, you gave this 
likeness of yourself to a young lady that you thought a 
great deal of. Can’t you recall something about it ? ” 
Nichol wrinkled his scarred forehead, scratched his head, 
and hitched uneasily in his chair, evidently making a vain 
effort to penetrate the gloom back of that vague awaken- 
ing in the Southern hospital. At last he broke out in his 
usual irritation, “ Naw, I kyant, doggon — ” 

“ Hush ! you must not use that word here. Don’t be 
discouraged. You are trying ; that ’s all I ask,” and the 
doctor laid a soothing hand on his shoulder. Now, Cap- 

II 


1 62 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


tain, I ’ll just step in the next room. You think quietly 
as you can about the young lady to whom you gave that 
picture of yourself.” 

Nichol was immensely pleased with his photograph, and 
looked at it in all its lights. While thus gratifying a sort of 
childish vanity, Helen entered noiselessly, her blue eyes, 
doubly luminous from the pallor of her face, shining like 
sapphires. So intent was her gaze that one might think it 
would ‘‘kindle a soul under the ribs of death.” 

At last Nichol became conscious of her presence and 
started, exclaiming, “Why, there she is herself.” 

“ Ohi Albert^ you do know me,” cried the girl, rushing 
toward him with outstretched hand. 

He took it unhesitatingly, saying with a pleased wonder, 
“Well, I reckon I’m cornin’ around. Yer the young lady 
I give this picture to?” 

“ I ’m Helen,” she breathed, with an indescribable accent 
of tenderness and gladness. 

“Why, cert’ny. The doctor tole me ’bout you.” 

“ But you remember me yourself? ” she pleaded. “You 
remember what you said to me when you gave me this 
picture? ” and she looked into his eyes with an expression 
which kindled even his dull senses. 

“ Oh, shucks ! ” he said slowly, “ I wish I could. I ’d like 
ter ’blige yer, fer yer right purty, en I am a-tryin’ ter mind 
the doctor.” 

Such a sigh escaped her that one might think her heart 
and hope were going with it. The supreme moment of 
meeting had come and gone, and he did not know her ; 
she saw and felt in her inmost soul that he did not. The 
brief and illusive gleam into the past was projected only 
from the present, resulting from what he had been told, not 
from what he recalled. 














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FO UND YET LOS T 


163 

She withdrew her hand, turned away, and for a moment 
or two her form shook with sobs she could not wholly stifle. 
He looked on perplexed and troubled, then broke out, “ I 
jes’ feels ez ef I ’d split my blamed ole haid open — ” 
She checked him by a gesture. “ Wait,” she cried, sit 
down.” She took a chair near him and hastily wiped her 
eyes. “ Perhaps I can help you remember me. You will 
listen closely, will you not?” 

I be dog — oh, I forgot,” and he looked toward the 
back parlor apprehensively. “ Yes, mees, I ’ll do anythin’ 
yer sez.” 

Well, once you were a little boy only so high, and I 
was a little girl only so high. We both lived in this village 
and we went to school together. We studied out of the 
same books together. At three o’clock in the afternoon 
school was out, and then we put our books in our desks 
and the teacher let us go and play. There was a pond of 
water, and it often froze over with smooth black ice. You 
and I used to go together to that pond ; and you would 
fasten my skates on my feet — ” 

“ Hanged ef I would n’t do it agin,” he cried, greatly 
pleased. “ Yer beats ’em all. Stid o’ astin questions, yer 
tells me all ’bout what happened. Why, I kin reckerlect 
it all ef I ’m tole often anuff.” 

With a sinking heart she faltered on, Then you grew 
older and went away to school, and I went away to school. 
We had vacations ; we rode on horseback together. Well, 
you grew to be as tall as you are now ; and then came a 
war and you wore a captain’s uniform, like — like that you 
see in your likeness, and — and — ” she stopped. Her 
rising color became a vivid flush ; she slowly rose as the 
thought burned its way into her consciousness that she 
was virtually speaking to a stranger. Her words were bring- 


1 64 TAKEN- ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


ing no gleams of intelligence into his face ; they were 
throwing no better, no stronger light upon the past than if 
she were telling the story to a great boy. Yet he was not 
a boy. A man’s face was merely disfigured (to her eyes) 
by a grin of pleasure instead of a pleased smile ; and a 
man’s eyes were regarding her with an unwinking stare of 
admiration. She was not facing her old playmate, her old 
friend and lover, but a being whose only consciousness 
reached back but months, through scenes, associations 
coarse and vulgar like himself. She felt this with an intui- 
tion that was overwhelming. She could not utter another 
syllable, much less speak of the sacred love of the past. 
‘‘ O God ! ” she moaned in her heart, the man has become 
a living grave in which his old self is buried. Oh, this is 
terrible, terrible ! ” 

As the truth grew upon her she sprang away, wringing 
her hands and looking upon him with an indescribable ex- 
pression of pity and dread. Oh,” she now moaned aloud, 
if he had only come back to me mutilated in body, help- 
less ! but this change — ” 

She fled from the room, and Nichol stared after her in 
perplexed consternation. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“ FORWARD ! COMPANY A.” 



HEN Mrs. Kemble was left alone with Captain 


^ ^ Nichol’s parents in the sitting-room, she told them 
of Helen’s plan of employing the photograph in trying to 
recall their son to himself. It struck them as an unusually 
effective method. Mrs. Kemble saw that their anxiety was 


FOUND YET LOST. 


165 

SO intense that it was torture for them to remain in suspense 
away from the scene of action. It may be added that her 
own feelings also led her to go with them into the back par- 
lor, where all that was said by Nichol and her daughter 
could be heard. Her solicitude for Helen was not less than 
theirs for their son ; and she felt the girl might need both 
motherly care and counsel. She was opposed even more 
strenuously than her husband to any committal on the 
daughter’s part to her old lover unless he should become 
beyond all doubt his former self. At best, it would be a 
heavy cross to give up Martine, who had won her entire 
affection. Helen’s heart presented a problem too deep for 
solution.' What would — what could — Captain Nichol be 
to her child in his present condition, should it continue ? 

It was but natural therefore that she and her husband 
should listen to Helen’s effort to awaken memories of the 
past with profound anxiety. How far would she go? If 
Nichol were able to respond with no more appreciative in- 
telligence than he had thus far manifested, would a sen- 
timent of pity and obligation carry her to the point of 
accepting him as he was, of devoting herself to one who, in 
spite of all their commiseration and endeavors to tolerate, 
might become a sort of horror in their household ! It was 
with immense relief that they heard her falter in her story, 
for they quickly divined that there was nothing in him which 
responded to her effort. When they heard her rise and 
moan, “ If he had only come back to me mutilated in body, 
helpless ! but this change — ” they believed that she was 
meeting the disappointment as they could wish. 

Mr. and Mrs. Nichol heard the words also, and while in 
a measure compelled to recognize their force, they con- 
veyed a meaning hard to accept. The appeal upon which 
so much hope had been built had failed. In bitterness of 


1 66 7'AKEN ALIVE- AND OTHER STORIES. 

soul, the conviction grew stronger that their once brave, 
keen-minded son would never be much better than an 
idiot. 

Then Helen appeared among them as pale, trembling, 
and overwhelmed as if she had seen a spectre. In strong 
reaction from her effort and blighted hope she was almost 
in a fainting condition. Her mother’s arms received her 
and supported her to a lounge ; Mrs. Nichol gave way to 
bitter weeping ; Mr. Kemble wrung the father’s hand in 
sympathy, and then at his wife’s request went for restora- 
tives. Dr. Barnes closed the sliding-doors and prudently 
reassured Nichol : “ You have done your best. Captain, and 
that is all I asked of you. Remain here quietly and look at 
your picture for a little while, and then you shall have a 
good long rest.” 

“ I did try. Doctor,” protested Nichol, anxiously. “ Gee 
wiz ! I reckon a feller orter try ter please sech a purty 
gyurl. She tole me lots. Look yere. Doctor, why kyant I 
be tole over en over till I reckerlect it all? •” 

Well, we ’ll see. Captain. It ’s late now, and we must 
all have a rest. Stay here till I come for you.” 

Nichol was so pleased with his photograph that he was 
well content in its contemplation. The physician now gave 
his attention to Helen, who was soon so far restored as to 
comprehend her utter failure. Her distress was great in- 
deed, and for a few moments diverted the thoughts of even 
Mr. and Mrs. Nichol from their own sad share in the dis- 
appointment. 

“ Oh, oh ! ” sobbed Helen, “ this is the bitterest sorrow 
the war has brought us yet.” 

Well, now, friends,” said Dr. Barnes, ‘‘ it ’s time I had 
my say and gave my orders. You must remember that I 
have not shared very fully in your confidence that the cap- 


FOUND YET LOST. 


167 

tain could be restored by the appeals you have made ; 
neither do I share in this abandonment to grief now. As 
the captain says, he is yet simply unable to respond. We 
must patiently wait and see what time and medical skill can 
do for him. There is no reason whatever for giving up 
hope. Mrs. Kemble, I would advise you to take Miss 
Helen to her room, and you, Mr. Nichol, to take your wife 
and son home. I will call in the morning, and then we can 
advise further.” 

His counsel was followed, the captain readily obeying 
when told to go with his parents. Then the physician 
stepped over to Martine’s cottage and found, as he sup- 
posed, that the opiate and exhausted nature had brought 
merciful oblivion. 

It was long before Helen slept, nor would she take any- 
thing to induce sleep. She soon became quiet, kissed her 
mother, and said she wished to be alone. Then she tried 
to look at the problem in all its aspects, and earnestly asked 
for divine guidance. The decision reached in the gray 
dawn brought repose of mind and body. 

It was late in the afternoon when Martine awoke with a 
dull pain in his head and heart. As the consciousness of 
all that had happened returned, he remembered that there 
was good reason for both. His faithful old domestic soon 
prepared a dainty meal, which aided in giving tone to his 
exhausted system. Then he sat down by his fire to brace 
himself for the tidings he expected to hear. Helen’s chair 
was empty. It would always be hers, but hope was gone 
that she would smile from it upon him during the long win- 
ter evenings. Already the room was darkening toward the 
early December twilight, and he felt that his life was darken- 
ing in like manner. He was no longer eager to hear what 
had occurred. The mental and physical sluggishness which 


68 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


possessed him was better than sharp pain ; he would learn 
all soon enough, — the recognition, the beginning of a new 
life which inevitably would drift farther and farther from 
him. His best hope was to get through the time, to endure 
patiently and shape his life so as to permit as little of its 
shadow as possible to fall upon hers. But as he looked 
around the apartment and saw on every side the prepara- 
tions for one who had been his, yet could be no longer, his 
fortitude gave way, and he buried his face in his hands. 

So deep was his painful revery that he did not hear the 
entrance of Dr. Barnes and Mr. Kemble. The latter laid 
a hand upon his shoulder and said kindly, “ Hobart, my 
friend, it is just as I told you it would be. Helen needs 
you and wishes to see you.” 

Martine started up, exclaiming, “ He must have re- 
membered her.” 

Mr. Kemble shook his head. “ No, Hobart,” said the 
doctor, “ she was as much of a stranger to him as you were. 
There were, of course, grounds for your expectation and 
hers also, but we prosaic physiologists have some reason for 
our doubtings as well as you for your beliefs. It ’s going to 
be a question of time with Nichol. How are you yourself? 
Ah, I see,” he added, with his finger on his patient’s pulse. 
^‘With you it’s going to be a question of tonics.” 

‘‘ Yes, I admit that,” Martine replied, “ but perhaps of 
tonics other than those you have in mind. You said, sir 
[to Mr. Kemble], that Helen wished to see me?” 

“Yes, when you feel well enough.” 

“ I trust you will make yourselves at home,” said Martine, 
hastily preparing to go out. * 

“ But don’t you wish to hear more about Nichol? ” asked 
the doctor, laughing. 

“ Not at present. Good-by.” 


FOUND YET LOST. 


169 

Yet he was perplexed how to meet the girl who should 
now have been his wife ; and he trembled with strange em- 
barrassment as he entered the familiar room in which he 
had parted from her almost on the eve of their wedding. 
She was neither perplexed nor embarrassed, for she had the 
calmness of a fixed purpose. She went swiftly to him, took 
his hand, led him to a chair, then sat down beside him. 
He looked at her. wonderingly and listened sadly as she 
asked, “Hobart, will you be patient with me again?” 

“ Yes,” he replied after a moment, yet he sighed deeply 
in foreboding. 

Tears came into her eyes, yet her voice did not falter as 
she continued, “ I said last night that you would understand 
me better than any one else ; so I believe you will now. 
You will sustain and strengthen me in what I believe to be 
duty.” 

“ Yes, Helen, up to the point of such endurance as I 
have. One can’t go beyond that.” 

“ No, Hobart, but you will not fail me, nor let me fail. 
I cannot marry Captain Nichol as he now is,” — there was 
an irrepressible flash of joy in his dark eyes, — “ nor can I,” 
she added slowly and sadly, “ marry you.” He was about 
to speak, but she checked him and resumed. “ Listen 
patiently to me first I have thought and thought long 
hours, and I think I am right. You, better than I, know 
Captain Nichol’s condition, — its- sad contrast to his former 
noble self. The man we once knew is veiled, hidden, lost 
— how can we express it ? But he exists, and at any time 
may find and reveal himself. No one, not even I, can 
revolt at what he is now as he will revolt at it all when his 
true consciousness returns. He has met with an immeasur- 
able misfortune. He is infinitely worse off than if help- 
less, — worse off than if he were dead, if this condition is to 


I/O TAKEN A LIFE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

last ; but it may not last. What would he think of me 
if I should desert him now and leave him nothing to re- 
member but a condition of which he could only think with 
loathing? I will hide nothing from you, Hobart, my brave, 
true friend, — you who have taught me what patience means. 
If you had brought him back utterly helpless, yet his old 
self in mind, I could have loved him and married him, and 
you would have sustained me in that course. Now I don’t 
know. My future, in this respect, is hidden like his. The 
shock I received last night, the revulsion of feeling which 
followed, leaves only one thing clear. I must try to do 
what is right by him ; it will not be easy. I hope you 
will understand. While I have the deepest pity that a 
woman can feel, I shrink from him now, for the contrast 
between his former self and his present is so terrible. Oh, 
it is such a horrible mystery ! All Dr. Barnes’s explanations 
do not make it one bit less mysterious and dreadful. 
Albert took the risk of this ; he has suffered this for his 
country. I must suffer for him ; I. must not desert him in 
his sad extremity. I must not permit him to awake some 
day and learn from others what he now is, and that I, the 
woman he loved, of all others, left him to his degradation. 
The consequences might be more fatal than the injury 
which so changed him. Such action on my part might 
destroy him morally. Now his old self is buried as truly as 
if he had died. I could never look him in the face again 
if I left him to take his chances in life with no help from 
me, still less if I did that which he could scarcely forgive. 
He could not understand all that has happened since 
we thought him dead. He would only remember that I 
deserted him in his present pitiable plight. Do you 
understand me, Hobart?” 
must, Helen.” 


FOUND YET LOST. 


I7I 

I know how hard it is for you. Can you think I for- 
get this for a moment? Yet I send for you to help, to 
sustain me in a purpose which changes our future so greatly. 
Do you not remember what you said once about accepting 
the conditions of life as they are? We must do this again, 
and make the best of them.” 

But if — suppose his memory does not come back. Is 
there to be no hope?” 

Hobart, you must put that thought from you as far as 
you can. Do you not see whither it might lead? You 
would not wish Captain Nichol to remain as he is?” 

Oh,” he cried desperately, I ’m put in a position that 
would tax any saint in the calendar.” 

‘^Yes, you are. The future is not in our hands. I can 
only appeal to you to help me do what I think is right 
nowT 

He thought a few moments, took his resolve, then gave her 
his hand silently. She understood him without a word. 

The news of the officer’s return and of his strange con- 
dition was soon generally known in the village ; but his 
parents, aided by the physician, quickly repressed tliose in- 
clined to call from mere curiosity. At first Jim Wetherby 
scouted the idea that his old captain would not know him, 
but later had to admit the fact with a wonder which no 
explanations satisfied. Nichol immediately took a fancy to 
the one-armed veteran, who was glad to talk by the hour 
about soldiers and hospitals. 

Before any matured plan for treatment could be adopted 
Nichol became ill, and soon passed into the delirium of 
fever, “ The trouble is now clear enough,” Dr. Barnes ex- 
plained. “ The captain has lived in hospitals and breathed 
a tainted atmosphere so long that his system is poisoned. 
This radical change of air has developed the disease,” 


1/2 TAKEN A LIVE: ANE OTHER STORIES. 

Indeed, the typhoid symptoms progressed so rapidly as 
to show that the robust look of health had been in appear- 
ance only. The injured, weakened brain was the organ 
which suffered most, and in spite of the physician’s best 
efforts his patient speedily entered into a condition of 
stupor, relieved only by low, unintelligible mutterings. 
Jim Wetherby became a tireless watcher, and greatly re- 
lieved the grief-stricken parents. Helen earnestly entreated 
that she might act the part of nurse also, but the doctor 
firmly forbade her useless exposure to contagion. She 
drove daily to the house, yet Mrs. Nichol’s sad face and 
words could scarcely dissipate the girl’s impression that the 
whole strange episode was a dream. 

At last it was feared that the end was near. One night 
Dr. Barnes. Mr. and Mrs. Nichol, and Jim Wetherby were 
watching in the hope of a gleam of intelligence. He was 
very low, scarcely more than breathing, and they dreaded 
lest there might be no sign before the glimmer of life faded 
out utterly. 

Suddenly the captain seemed to awake, his glassy eyes 
kindlefl, and a noble, yet stern expression dignified his vis- 
age. In a thick voice he said, “ For — ” Then, as if all 
the remaining forces of life asserted themselves, he rose in 
his bed and exclaimed loudly, “ Forward ! Company A. 
Guide right. Ah ! ” He fell back, now dead in very truth. 

Oh ! ” cried Jim Wetherby, excitedly, them was the 
last words I heard from him just before the shell burst, and 
he looks now just as he did then.” 

“Yes,” said Dr. Barnes, sadly and gravely, “memory 
came back to him at the point where he lost it. He has 
died as we thought at first, — a brave soldier leading a 
charge.” 

The stem, grand impress of battle remained upon the 


FOUND YET LOST. 


173 


officer’s countenance. Friends and neighbors looked upon 
his ennobled visage with awe, and preserved in honored 
remembrance the real man that temporarily had been ob- 
scured. Helen’s eyes, when taking her farewell look, were 
not so blinded with tears but that she recognized his 
restored manhood. Death’s touch had been more potent 
than love’s appeal. 

In the Wilderness, upon a day fatal to him and so many 
thousands. Captain Nichol had prophesied of the happy 
days of peace. They came, and he was not forgotten. 

One evening Dr. Barnes was sitting with Martine and 
Helen at their fireside. They had been talking about 
Nichol, and Helen remarked thoughtfully, “ It was so very 
strange that he should have regained his memory in the 
way and at the time he did.” 

“ No,” replied the physician, “ that part of his experience 
does not strike me as so very strange. In typhoid cases a 
lucid interval is apt to precede death. His brain, like his 
body, was depleted, shrunken slightly by disease. This 
impoverishment probably removed the cerebral obstruction, 
and the organ of memory renewed its action at the point 
where it had been arrested. My theory explains his’ last 
ejaculation, ‘ Ah ! ’ It was his involuntary exclamation as 
he again heard the shell burst. The reproduction in his 
mind of this explosion killed him instantly after all. He 
was too enfeebled to bear the shock. If he had passed 
from delirium into quiet sleep — ah, well ! he is dead, and 
that is all we can know with certainty.” 

“ Well,” said Martine, with a deep breath, ‘‘ I am glad he 
had every chance that it was possible for us to give him.” * 

“ Yes, Hobart,” added his wife, gently, you did your 
whole duty, and I do not forget what it cost you,” 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 


ly /T OTHER,” remarked Farmer Banning, discontent- 
edly, “ Susie is making a long visit.” 

“ She is coming home next week,” said his cheery wife. 
She had drawn her low chair close to the air-tight stove, for 
a late March snow-storm was raging without. 

“ It seems to me that I miss her more and more.” 

‘‘Well, I ’m not jealous.” 

“ Oh, come, wife, you need n’t be. The idea ! But I ’d 
be jealous if our little girl was sorter weaned away from us 
by this visit in town.” 

“ Now, see here, father, you beat all the men I ever heard 
of in scolding about farmers borrowing, and here you are 
borrowing trouble.” 

“Well, I hope I won’t have to pay soon. But I ’ve been 
thinking that the old farm-house may look small and appear 
lonely after her gay winter. When she is away, it ’s too big 
for me, and a suspicion lonely for us both. I ’ve seen that 
you ’ve missed her more than I have.” 

“ I guess you ’re right. Well, she ’s coming home, as I 
said, and we must make home seem home to her. The 
child’s growing up. Why, she ’ll be eighteen week after 
next. You must give her something nice on her birthday.” 

“ I will,” said the farmer, his rugged, weather-beaten face 
softening with memories. “ Is our little girl as old as that ? 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 


75 


Why, only the other day I was carrying her on my shoulder 
to the barn and to«sing her into the haymow. Sure enough, 
the loth of April will be her birthday. Well, she shall 
choose her own present.” 

On the afternoon of the 5 th of April he went down the 
long hill to the station, and was almost like a lover in his 
eagerness to see his child. He had come long before the 
train’s schedule time, but was rewarded at last. When Susie 
appeared, she gave him a kiss before every one, and a glad 
greeting which might have satisfied the most exacting of 
lovers. He watched her furtively as they rode at a smart 
trot up the hill. Farmer Banning kept no old nags for 
his driving, but strong, well-fed, spirited horses that some- 
times drew a light vehicle almost by the reins. “ Yes,” 
he thought, “ she has grown a little citified. She ’s paler, 
and has a certain air or style that don’t seem just natural to 
the hill. Well, thank the Lord ! she does n’t seem sorry to 
go up the hill once more.” 

“There ’s the old place, Susie, waiting for you,” he said. 
“ It does n’t look so very bleak, does it, after all the fine 
city houses you ’ve seen? ” 

“Yes, father, it does. It never appeared so bleak 
before.” 

He looked at his home, and in the late gray afternoon, 
saw it in a measure with her eyes, — the long brown, bare 
slopes, a few gaunt old trees about the house, and the top- 
boughs of the apple-orchard behind a sheltering hill in the 
rear of the dwelling. 

“ Father,” resumed the girl, “ we ought to call our place 
the Bleak House. I never so realized before how bare and 
desolate it looks, standing there right in the teeth of the 
north wind.” 

His countenance fell, but he had no time for comment. 


176 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

A moment later Susie was in her mother’s arms. The 
farmer lifted the trunk to the horse-block and drove to the 
barn. “ I guess it will be the old story,” he muttered. 
“ Home has become ‘ Bleak House.’ I suppose it did look 
bleak to her eyes, especially at this season. Well, well, 
some day Susie will go to the city to stay, and then it will 
be Bleak House, sure enough.” 

“ Oh, father,” cried his daughter, when after doing his 
evening work, he entered with the shadow of his thoughts 
still upon his face, — oh, father, mother says I can choose 
my birthday-present ! ” 

“ Yes, Sue ; I ’ve passed my word.” 

“ And so I have your bond. My present will make you 
open your eyes.” 

“ And pocket-book too, I suppose. I ’ll trust you, how- 
ever, not to break me. What is it to be? ” 

I ’ll tell you the day before, and not till then.” 

After supper they drew around the stove. Mrs. Banning 
got out her knitting, as usual, and prepared for city gossip. 
The farmer rubbed his hands over the general aspect of 
comfort, and especially over the regained presence of his 
child’s bright face. “ Well, Sue,” he remarked, “ you ’ll own 
that this room in the house doesn’t look very bleak?” 

“ No, father, I ’ll own nothing of the kind. Your face 
and mother’s are not bleak, but the room is.” 

^MVell,” said the farmer, rather disconsolately, “I fear 
the old place has been spoiled for you. I was saying to 
mother before you came home — ” 

There, now, father, no matter about what you were say- 
ing. Let Susie tell us why the room is bleak.” 

The girl laughed softly, got up, and taking a billet of 
wood from the box, put it into the air-tight. The stove 
has swallowed it just as old Trip did his supper. Shame ! 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 


177 

you greedy dog,” she added, caressing a great Newfound- 
land that would not leave her a moment. “ Why can’t you 
learn to eat your meals like a gentleman?” Then to her 
father, “ Suppose we could sit here and see the flames curl- 
ing all over and around that stick. Even a camp in the 
woods is jolly when lighted up by a flickering blaze.” 

‘‘ Oh — h ! ” said the farmer ; you think an open fire 
would take away the bleakness?” 

Certainly. The room would be changed instantly, and 
mother’s face would look young and rosy again. The 
blue-black of this sheet-iron stove makes the room look 
blue-black.” 

“ Open fires don’t give near as much heat,” said her 
father, meditatively. They take an awful lot of wood ; 
and wood is getting scarce in these parts.” 

“ I should say so ! Why don’t you farmers get together, 
appoint a committee to cut down every tree remaining, 
then make it a states-prison offence ever to set out an- 
other? Why, father, you cut nearly all the trees from your 
lot a few years ago and sold the wood. Now that the trees 
are growing again, you are talking of clearing up the land 
for pasture. Just think of the comfort we could get out of 
that wood-lot ! What crop would pay better? All the up- 
holsterers in the world cannot furnish a room as an open 
hard-wood fire does ; and all the produce of the farm could 
not buy anything else half so nice.” 

Say, mother,” said her father, after a moment, “ I 
guess I ’ll get down that old Franklin from the garret to- 
morrow and see if it can’t furnish this room.” 

The next morning he called rather testily to the hired 
man, who was starting up the lane with an axe, Hiram, 
I ’ve got other work for you. Don’t cut a stick in that 
wood-lot unless I tell you.” 


12 


178 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

The evening of the 9th of April was cool but clear, and 
the farmer said genially, “Well, Sue, prospects good for 
fine weather on your birthday. Glad of it ; for I suppose 
you will want me to go to town with you for your present, 
whatever it is to be.” 

“ You ’ll own up a girl can keep a secret now, won’t 
you?” 

“ He ’ll have to own more ’n that,” added his wife ; “ he 
must own that an old woman hasn’t lost any sleep from 
curiosity.” 

“ How much will be left me to own to-morrow night? ” 
said the farmer, dubiously. “ I suppose Sue wants a watch 
studded with diamonds, or a new house, or something else 
that she darsn’t speak of till the last minute, even to her 
mother.” 

“Nothing of the kind. I want only all your time to- 
morrow, and all Hiram’s time, after you have fed the 
stock.” 

“ All our time ! ” 

“ Yes, the entire day, in which you both are to do just 
what I wish. You are not going gallivanting to the city, 
but will have to work hard.” 

“ Well, I ’m beat ! I don’t know what you want any 
more than I did at first.” 

“Yes, you do, — your time and Hiram’s.” 

“ Give it up. It ’s hardly the season for a picnic. We 
might go fishing — ” 

“We must go to bed, so as to be up early, all hands.” 

“ Oh, hold on. Sue ; I do like this wood-fire. If it 
wouldn’t make you vain, I’d tell you how — ” 

“ Pretty, father. Say it out.” 

“Oh, you know it, do you? Well, how pretty you look 
in the firelight. Even mother, there, looks ten years 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 


179 


younger. Keep your low seat, child, and let me look at 
you. So you ’re eighteen ? My ! my ! how the years roll 
around ! It will be Bleak House for mother and me, in 
spite of the wood-fire, when you leave us.” 

It won’t be Bleak House much longer,” she replied 
with a significant little nod. 

The next morning at an early hour the farmer said, All 
ready. Sue. Our time is yours till night ; so queen it over 
us.” And black Hiram grinned acquiescence, thinking he 
was to have an easy time. 

Queen it, did you say?” cried Sue, in great spirits. 
“ Well, then, I shall be queen of spades. Get ’em, and 
come with me. Bring a pickaxe, too.” She led the way 
to a point not far from the dwelling, and resumed : A 
hole here, father, a hole there, Hiram, big enough for a 
small hemlock, and holes all along the northeast side of the 
house. Then lots more holes, all over the lawn, for oaks, 
maples, dogwood, and all sorts of pretty trees, especially 
evergreens.” 

Oh, ho ! ” cried the farmer ; now I see the hole where 
the woodchuck went in.” 

But you don’t see the hole where he ’s coming out. 
When that is dug, even the road will be lined with trees. 
Foolish old father ! you thought I ’d be carried away with 
city gewgaws, fine furniture, dresses, and all that sort of 
thing. You thought I ’d be pining for what you could n’t 
afford, what would n’t do you a particle of good, nor me 
either, in the long run. I ’m going to make you set out 
trees enough to double the value of your place and take all 
the bleakness and bareness from this hillside. To-day is 
only the beginning. I did get some new notions in the 
city which made me discontented with my home, but they 
were not the notions you were worrying about. In the 


l80 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

suburbs I saw that the most costly houses were made 
doubly attractive by trees and shnibbery, and I knew that 
trees would grow for us as well as for millionnaires — My 
conscience ! if there is n’t — ” and the girl frowned and bit 
her lips. 

Is that one of the city beaux you were telling us 
about?” asked her father, sotto voce. 

‘‘Yes; but I don’t want any beaux around to-day. I 
did n’t think he be so persistent.” Then, conscious that 
she was not dressed for company, but for work upon which 
she had set her heart, she advanced and gave Mr. Minturn 
a rather cool greeting. 

But the persistent beau was equal to the occasion. He 
had endured Sue’s absence as long as he could, then had 
resolved on a long day’s siege, with a grand storming-onset 
late in the afternoon. 

“ Please, Miss Banning,” he began, “ don’t look askance 
at me for coming at this unearthly hour. I claim the sacred 
rites of hospitality. I ’m an invalid. The doctor said I 
needed country air, or would have prescribed it if given 
a chance. You said I might come to see you some day, 
and by playing Paul Pry I found out, you remember, that 
this was your birthday, and — ” 

“ And this is my father, Mr. Minturn.” 

Mr. Minturn shook the farmer’s hand with a cordiality 
calculated to awaken suspicions of his designs in a pump, 
had its handle been thus grasped. “ Mr. Banning will for- 
give me for appearing with the lark,” he continued volubly, 
determining to break the ice. “ One can’t get the full ben- 
efit of a day in the country if he starts in the afternoon.” 

The farmer was polite, but nothing more. If there was 
one thing beyond all others with which he could dispense, 
it was a beau for Sue. 


QUEEN OF SPADES. l8l 

Sue gave her father a significant, disappointed glance, 
which meant, “ I won’t get my present to-day ; ” but he 
turned and said to Hiram, “ Dig the hole right there, two 
feet across, eighteen inches deep.” Then he started for 
the house. While not ready for suitors, his impulse to 
bestow hospitality was prompt. 

The alert Mr. Minturn had observed the girl’s glance, 
and knew that the farmer had gone to prepare his wife for 
a guest. He determined not to remain unless assured of a 
welcome. “Come, Miss Banning,” he said, “we are at 
least friends, and should be frank. How much misunder- 
standing and trouble would often be saved if people would 
just speak their thought ! This is your birthday, — your 
day. It should not be marred by any one. It would dis- 
tress me keenly if I were the one to spoil it. Why not 
believe me literally and have your way absolutely about 
this day? I could come another time. Now show that a 
country girl, at least, can speak her mind.” 

With an embarrassed little laugh she answered, “ I ’m 
half inclined to take you at your word ; but it would look so 
inhospitable.” 

“ Bah for looks ! The truth, please. By the way, 
though, you never looked better than in that trim blue 
walking-suit.” 

“ Old outgrown working-suit, you mean. How sincere 
you are ! ” 

“ Indeed I am. Well, \ de trop ; that much is plain. 
You will let me come another day, won’t you?” 

“ Yes, and I ’ll be frank too and tell you about this day. 
Father ’s a busy man, and his spring work is beginning, but 
as my birthday-present he has given me all his time and all 
Hiram’s yonder. Well, I learned in the city how trees im- 
proved a home ; and I had planned to spend this long day 


82 


7 'A KEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


in setting out trees, — planned it ever since my return. So 
you see — ” 

Of course I see and approve,” cried Minturn. I 
know now why I had such a wild impulse to come out here 
to-day. Why, certainly. Just fancy me a city tramp look- 
ing for work, and not praying I won’t find it, either. I ’ll 
work for my board. 1 know how to set out trees. I can 
prove it, for I planted those thrifty fellows growing about 
our house in town. Think how much more you ’ll ac- 
complish with another man to help, — one that you can 
order around to your heart’s content.” 

“ The idea of my putting you to work ! ” 

‘‘ A capital idea ! and if a man does n’t work when a 
woman puts him at it he is n’t worth the powder — I won’t 
waste time even in original remarks. I ’ll promise you there 
will be double the number of trees out by night. Let me 
take your father’s spade and show you how I can dig. Is 
this the place? If I don’t catch up with Hiram, you may 
send the tramp back to the city.” And before she could 
remonstrate, his coat was off and he at work. 

Laughing, yet half in doubt, she watched him. The way 
he made the earth fly was surprising. “ Oh, come,” she 
said after a few moments, you have shown your good 
will. A steam-engine could not keep it up at that rate.” 

“ Perhaps not ; but I can. Before you engage me, I 
wish you to know that I am equal to old Adam, and can 
dig.” 

“ Engage you ! ” she thought with a little flutter of dis- 
may. “ I could manage him with the help of town con- 
ventionalities ; but how will it be here ? I suppose I can 
keep father and Hiram within earshot, and if he is so 
bent on — well, call it a lark, since he has referred to 
that previous bird, perhaps I might as well have a lark 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 1 83 

too, seeing it ’s my birthday.” Then she spokcv Mr. 
Minturn ! ” 

“I’m busy.” 

“But really — ” 

“And truly tell me, am I catching up with Hiram? ” 

“ You ’ll get down so deep that you ’ll drop through if 
you ’re not careful.” 

“ There ’s nothing like having a man who is steady work- 
ing for you. Now, most fellows would stop and giggle at 
such little amusing remarks.” 

“You are soiling your trousers.” 

“ Yes, you ’re right. They are mine. There ; is n’t that 
a regulation hole? ‘Two feet across and eighteen deep.’ ” 
“Yah! yah!” cackled Hiram; “eighteen foot deep! 
Dat ud be a well.” 

“ Of course it would, and truth would lie at its bottom. 
Can I stay. Miss Banning?” 

“ Did you ever see the like? ” cried the farmer, who had 
appeared, unnoticed. 

• “ Look here, father,” said the now merry girl, “ perhaps I 
was mistaken. This — ” 

“ Tramp — ” interjected Minturn, 

“ Says he ’s looking for work and knows how to set out 
trees.” 

“ And will work all day for a dinner,” the tramp promptly 
added. 

“ If he can dig holes at that rate. Sue,” said her father, 
catching their spirit, “ he ’s worth a dinner. But you ’re 
boss to-day; I ’m only one of the hands.” 

“I’m only another,” said Minturn, touching his hat. 

“ Boss, am I ? I ’ll soon find out. Mr. Minturn, come 
with me and don a pair of overalls. You sha’n’t put me to 
shame, wearing that spick-and-span suit, neither shall you 


1 84 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

spoil it. Oh, you ’re in for it now ! You might have escaped, 
and come another day, when I could have received you in 
state and driven you out behind father’s frisky bays. When 
you return to town with blistered hands and aching bones, 
you will at least know better another time.” 

I don’t know any better this time, and just yearn for 
those overalls.” 

“To the house, then, and see mother before you become 
a wreck.” 

Farmer Banning looked after him and shook his head. 
Hiram spoke his employer’s thought, “ Dat ar gem’lin act 
like he gwine ter set hisself out on dis farm.” 

Sue had often said, “ I can never be remarkable for any- 
thing; but I won’t be commonplace.” So she did not leave 
her guest in the parlor while she rushed off for a whispered 
conference with her mother. The well-bred simplicity of 
her manner, which often stopped just short of brusqueness, 
was never more apparent than now. “ Mother ! ” she called 
from the parlor door. 

The old lady gave a few final directions to her maid-of- 
all-work, and then appeared. 

“ Mother, this is Mr. Min turn, one of my city friends, of 
whom I have spoken to you. He is bent on helping me set 
out trees.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Banning, so bent that your daughter found 
that she would have to employ her dog to get me off the 
place.” 

Now, it had so happened that in discussing with her 
mother the young men whom she had met. Sue had said 
little about Mr. Min turn ; but that little was significant to the 
experienced matron. Words had slipped out now and then 
which suggested that the girl did more thinking than talking 
concerning him ; and she always referred to him in some 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 1 85 

light which she chose to regard as ridiculous, but which 
had not seemed in the least absurd to the attentive listener. 
When her husband, therefore, said that Mr. Mintum had 
appeared on the scene, she felt that an era of portentous 
events had begun. The trees to be set out would change 
the old place greatly, but a primeval forest shading the door 
would be as nothing compared with the vicissitude which a 
favored beau ” might produce. But mothers are more 
unselfish than fathers, and are their daughters’ natural allies 
unless the suitor is objectionable. Mrs. Banning was in- 
clined to be hospitable on general principles, meantime eager 
on her own account to see something of this man, about 
whom she had presentiments. So she said affably, ‘‘ My 
daughter can keep her eye on the work which she is 
so interested in, and yet give you most of her time. — 
Susan, I will entertain Mr. Minturn while you change your 
dress.” 

Sue glanced at her guest dubiously, receiving for the 
moment the impression that the course indicated by her 
mother was the correct one. The resolute admirer knew 
well what a fiasco the day would be should the convention- 
alities prevail, and so said promptly, “Mrs. Banning, I 
appreciate your kind intentions, and I hope some day you 
may have the chance to carry them out. To-day, as your 
hujband understands, I am a tramp from the city looking 
for work. I have found it, and have been engaged. — Miss 
Banning, I shall hold you inflexibly to our agreement, — a 
pair of overalls and dinner.” 

Sue said a few words of explanation. Her mother laughed, 
but urged, “ Do go and change your dress.” 

“I protest!” cried Mr. Minturn. “The walking-suit 
and overalls go together.” 

“ Walking-suit, indeed 1 ” repeated Sue, disdainfully. 


l86 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ But I shall not change it. I will not soften one feature 
of the scrape you have persisted in getting yourself into.” 

Please don’t.” 

“ Mr. Minturn,” said the matron, with smiling positive- 
ness, “ Susie is boss only out of doors ; I am, in the house. 
There is a fresh-made cup of coffee and some eggs on toast 
in the dining-room. Having taken such an early start, you 
ought to have a lunch before being put to work.” 

“ Yes,” added Sue, “ and the out-door boss says you can’t 
go to work until at least the coffee is sipped.” 

“She’s shrewd, isn’t she, Mrs. Banning? She knows 
she will get twice as much work out of me on the strength 
of that coffee. Please get the overalls. I will not sip, but 
swallow the coffee, unless it ’s scalding, so that no time may 
be lost. Miss Banning must see all she had set her heart 
upon accomplished to-day, and a great deal more.” 

The matron departed on her quest, and as she pulled out 
the overalls, nodded her head significantly. “ Things will 
be serious sure enough if he accomplishes all he has set his 
heart on,” she muttered. “ Well, he doesn’t seem afraid to 
give us a chance to see him. He certainly will look ridicu- 
lous in these overalls, but not much more so than Sue in 
that old dress. I do wish she would change it.” 

The girl had considered this point, but with characteristic 
decision had thought, “No; he shall see us all on the 
plainest side of our life. He always seemed a good deal of 
an exquisite in town, and he lives in a handsome house. If 
to-day’s experience at the old farm disgusts him, so be it. 
My dress is clean and tidy, if it is outgrown and darned ; 
and mother is always neat, no matter what she wears. I ’m 
going through the day just as I planned ; and if he ’s too 
fine for us, now is the time to find it out. He may have 
come just for a lark, and will laugh with his folks to-night 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 1 8 / 

over the guy of a girl I appear ; but I won’t yield even to 
the putting of a ribbon in my hair.” 

Mrs. Banning never permitted the serving of cold slops 
for coffee, and Mr. Minturn had to sip the generous and 
fragrant beverage slowly. Meanwhile, his thoughts were 
busy. Bah ! for the old saying, ‘ Take the goods the gods 
, send,’ ” he mused. ‘‘ Go after your goods and take your 
pick. I knew my head was level in coming out. All is 
just as genuine as I supposed it would be, — simple, honest, 
homely. The girl is n’t homely, though, but she ’s just as 
genuine as all the rest, in that old dress which fits her like a 
glove. No shams and disguises on this field-day of my life. 
And her mother ! A glance at her comfortable amplitude 
banished my one fear. There ’s not a sharp angle about 
her. I was satisfied about Miss Sue, but the term ‘ mother- 
in-law ’ suggests vague terrors to any man until reassured. — 
Ah, Miss Banning,” he said, “this coffee would warm the 
heart of an anchorite. No wonder you are inspired to fine 
things after drinking such nectar.” 

“ Yes, mother is famous for her coffee. I know that ’s 
fine, and you can praise it ; but I ’ll not permit any ironical 
remarks concerning myself.” 

“ I would n’t, if I were you, especially when you are mis- 
tress of the situation. Still, I can’t help having my opinion 
of you. Why in the world did n’t you choose as your pres- 
ent something stylish from the city? ” 

“ Something, I suppose you mean, in harmony with my 
very stylish surroundings and present appearance.” 

“ I did n’t mean anything of the kind, and fancy you 
know it. Ah ! here are the overalls. Now deeds, not 
words. I ’ll leave my coat, watch, cuffs, and all impedi- 
menta with you, Mrs. Banning. Am I not a spectacle 
to men and gods?” he added, drawing up the garment. 


88 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


which ceased to be nether in that it reached almost to his 
shoulders. 

“ Indeed you are,” cried Sue, holding her side from 
laughing. Mrs. Banning also vainly tried to repress her 
hilarity over the absurd guy into which the nattily- dressed 
city man had transformed himself. 

“ Come,” he cried, “ no frivolity ! You shall at least say 
I kept my word about the trees to-day.” And they started 
at once for the scene of action, Minturn obtaining on the 
way a shovel from the tool-room. 

‘‘To think she ’s eighteen years old and got a beau ! ” 
muttered the farmer, as he and Hiram started two new 
holes. They were dug and others begun, yet the young 
people had not returned. “ That ’s the way with young 
men nowadays, — ‘ big cry, little wool.’ I thought I was 
going to have Sue around with me all day. Might as well 
get used to it, I suppose. Eighteen ! Her mother was n’t 
much older when — yes, hang it, there ’s always a when with 
these likely girls. I ’d just like to start in again on that day 
when I tossed her into the haymow.” 

“ What are you talking to yourself about, father?” 

“ Oh ! I thought I had seen the last of you to-day.” 

“ Perhaps you will wish you had before night.” 

“ Well, now. Sue ! the idea of letting Mr. Minturn rig 
himself out like that ! There ’s no use of scaring the 
crows so long before corn-planting.” And the farm 
er’s guffaw was quickly joined by Hiram’s broad “ Yah ! 
yah ! ” 

Sue frowned a little as she said, “ He does n’t look any 
worse than I do.” 

“ Come, Mr. Banning, Solomon in all his glory could not 
so take your daughter’s eye to-day as a goodly number of 
trees standing where she wants them. I suggest that you 


QVEEA' OF SPADES. 1 89 

loQsen the soil with the pickaxe^ then I can throw it out 
rapidly. Try it.” 

The farmer did so, not only for Minturn, but for Hiram 
also. The lightest part of the work thus fell to him. “ We ’ll 
change about,” he said, when you get tired.” 

But Minturn did not get weary apparently, and under this 
new division of the toil the number of holes grew apace. 

Sakes alive, Mr. Minturn ! ” ejaculated Mr. Banning, 
“ one would think you had been brought up on a farm.” 

“ Or at ditch-digging,” added the young man. ‘‘ No ; 
my profession is to get people into hot water and then make 
them pay roundly to get out. I ’m a lawyer. Times have 
changed in cities. It ’s there you ’ll find young men with 
muscle, if anywhere. Put your hand here, sir, and you ’ll 
know whether Miss Banning made a bad bargain in hiring 
me for the day.” 

“ Why ! ” exclaimed the astonished farmer,, you have 
the muscle of a blacksmith.” 

“Yes, sir; I could learn that trade in about a month.” 

“You don’t grow muscle like that in a law-office? ” 

“ No, indeed ; nothing but bills grow there. A good 
fashion, if not abused, has come in vogue, and young men 
develop their bodies as well as brains. I belong to an ath- 
letic club in town, and could take to pugilism should every- 
thing else fail.” 

“Is there any prospect of your coming to that?” Sue 
asked mischievously. 

“ If we were out walking, and two or three rough fellows 
gave you impudence — ” He nodded significantly. 

“ What could you do against two or three ? They ’d close 
on you.” 

“ A fellow taught to use his hands does n’t let men close 
on him.” 


190 I'AA'EN- ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ Yah, yah ! reckon npt,” chuckled Hiram. One of the 
farm household had evidently been won. 

“ It seems to me,” remarked smiling Sue, that I saw 
several young men in town who appeared scarcely equal to 
carrying their canes.” 

“Dudes? ” 

“That ’s what they are called, I believe.” 

“ They are not men. They are neither fish, flesh, nor 
fowl, but the beginning of the great downward curve of 
evolution. Men came up from monkeys, it ’s said, you 
know, but science is in despair over the final down-comes 
of dudes. They may evolute into grasshoppers.” 

The farmer was shaken with mirth, and Sue could not 
help seeing that he was having a good time. She, however, 
felt that no tranquilly- exciting day was before her, as she 
had anticipated. What would n’t that muscular fellow at-' 
tempt before night ? He possessed a sort of vim and cheer- 
ful audacity which made her tremble. “ He is too con- 
fident,” she thought, “ and needs a lesson. All this digging 
is like that of soldiers who soon mean to drop their shovels. 
I don’t propose to be carried by storm just when he gets 
ready. He can have his lark, and that ’s all to-day. I 
want a good deal of time to think before I surrender to 
him or any one else.” 

During the remainder of the forenoon these musings pre- 
vented the slightest trace of sentimentality from appearing 
in her face or words. She had to admit mentally that Min- 
turn gave her no occasion for defensive tactics. He at- 
tended as strictly to business as did Hiram, and she was 
allowed to come and go at will. At first she merely ven- 
tured to the house, to “ help mother,” as she said. Then, 
with growing confidence, she went here and there to select 
sites for trees ; but Minturn dug on no longer “ like a steam- 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 


191 

engine,” yet in an easy, steady, effective way that was a 
continual surprise to the farmer. 

“ Well, Sue,” said her father at last, “ you and mother 
ought to have an extra dinner ; for Mr. Minturn certainly 
has earned one.” 

“ I promised him only a dinner,” she replied ; “ nothing 
was said about its being extra.” 

“ Quantity's all I ’m thinking of,” said Minturn. “ I 
have the sauce which will make it a feast.” 

“ Reckon it’s gwine on twelve,” said Hiram, cocking his 
eye at the sun. “Hadn’t I better feed de critters?” 

“ Ah, old man ! own up, now ; you ’ve got a backache,” 
said Minturn. 

“ Dere is kin’ ob a crik cornin’ — ” 

“ Drop work, all hands,” cried Sue. “ Mr. Minturn has 
a ‘ crik ’ also, but he ’s too proud to own it. How you ’ll 
groan for this to-morrow, sir ! ” 

“ If you take that view of the case, I may be under the 
necessity of giving proof positive to the contrary by coming 
out to-morrow.” 

“ You ’re not half through yet. The hardest part is to 
come.” 

“ Oh, I know that,” He replied ; and he gave her such a 
humorously-appealing glance that she turned quickly to- 
ward the house to hide a conscious flush. 

'Die farmer showed him to the spare-room, in which he 
found his belongings. Left to make his toilet, he muttered, 
“ Ah, better and better ! This is not the regulation re- 
frigerator into which guests are put at farm-houses. All 
needed for solid comfort is here, even to a slight fire in the 
air-tight. Now, is n’t that rosy old lady a jewel of a mother- 
in-law? She knows that a warm man shouldn’t get chilled 
just as well as if she had studied athletics. Miss Sue, how- 


192 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

ever, is a little chilly. She ’s on the fence yet. Jupiter I 
I am tired. Oh, well, I don’t believe I ’ll have seven years 
of this kind of thing. You were right, though, old man, if 
your Rachel was like mine. What ’s that rustle in the other 
room? She ’s dressing for dinner. So must I; and I’m 
ready for it. If she has romantic ideas about love and lost 
appetites, I ’m a goner.” 

When he descended to the parlor, his old stylish self 
again. Sue was there, robed in a gown which he had ad- 
mired before, revealing the fact to her by approving glances. 
But now he said, “ You don’t look half so well as you did 
before.” 

I can’t say that of you,” she replied. 

“ A man’s looks are of no consequence.” 

Few men think so.” 

“ Oh, they try to please such critical eyes as I now am 
meeting.” 

And throw dust in them too sometimes.” 

“ Yes ; gold dust, often. I have n’t much of that.” ^ 

“ It would be a pity to throw it away if you had.” 

No matter how much was thrown, I don’t think it would 
•blind you. Miss Banning.” 

The dining-room door across tlft hall opened, and the 
host and hostess appeared. “Why, father and mother, 
how fine you look ! ” 

“ It would be strange indeed if we did not honor this day,” 
said Mrs. Banning. “ I hope you have not so tired yourself, 
sir, that you cannot enjoy your dinner. I could scarcely 
believe my eyes as I watched you from the window.” 

“ I am afraid I shall astonish you still more at the table. 

I am simply ravenous.” 

“ This is your chance,” cried Sue. “ You are now to be 
paid in the coin you asked for.” 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 


193 


Sue did remark to herself by the time they reached des- 
sert and coifee, “ I need have no scruples in refusing a 
man with such an appetite ; he won’t pine. He is a law- 
yer, sure enough. He is just winning father and mother 
hand over hand.” 

Indeed, the bosom of good Mrs. Banning must have been 
environed with steel not to have had throbs of good-will 
toward one who showed such hearty appreciation of her capi- 
tal dinner. But Sue became only the more resolved that she 
was not going to yield so readily to this muscular suitor who 
was digging and eating his way straight into the hearts of 
her ancestors, and she proposed to be unusually elusive and 
alert during the afternoon. She was a little surprised when 
he resumed his old tactics. 

After drinking a second cup of coffee, he rose, and said, 
“ As an honest man, I have still a great deal to do after 
such a dinner.” 

‘‘ Well, it has just done me good to see you,” said Mrs. 
Banning, smiling genially over her old-fashioned coffee-pot. 
‘‘I feel highly complimented.” 

I doubt whether I shall be equal to another such 
compliment before the next birthday. I hope. Miss 
Susie, you have observed my efforts to do honor to the 
occasion? ” 

“ Oh,” cried the girl, “ I naturally supposed you were 
trying to get even in your bargain.” 

I hope to be about sundown. I’ll get into those over- 
alls at once, and I trust you will’ put on your walking-suit.” 

Yes, it will be a walking- suit for a short time. We 
must walk to the wood-lot for the trees, unless you prefer 
to ride. — Father, please tell Hiram to get the two-horse 
wagon ready.” 

When the old people were left alone, the farptier said, 


194 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

Well, mother, Sue has got a suitor, and if he don’t suit 
her — ” And then his wit gave out. 

There, father, I never thought you ’d come to that. 
It ’s well she has, for you will soon have to be taken care 
of.” 

“ He ’s got the muscle to do it. He shall have my law- 
business, anyway.” 

Thank the Lord, it is n’t much ; but that ’s not saying 
he shall have Sue.” 

‘‘ Why, what have you against him? ” 

“ Nothing so far. I was only finding out if you had any- 
thing against him.” 

Lawyers, indeed ! What would become of the men if 
women turned lawyers. Do you think Sue — ” 

Hush ! ” 

They all laughed till the tears came when Mintum again 
appeared dressed for work ; but he nonchalantly lighted a 
cigar and was entirely at his ease. 

Sue was armed with thick gloves and a pair of pruning- 
nippers. Mintum threw a spade and pickaxe on his shoul- 
der, and Mr. Banning, whom Sue had warned threateningly 
‘‘never to be far away,” tramped at their side as they went 
up the lane. Apparently there was no need of such precau- 
tion, for the young man seemed wholly bent on getting up 
the trees, most of which she had selected and marked during 
recent rambles. She helped now vigorously, pulling on the 
young saplings as they loosened the roots, then trimming 
them into shape. More than once, however, she detected 
glances, and his thoughts were more flattering than she 
imagined. “ What vigor she has in that supple, rounded 
form ! Her very touch ought to put life into these trees ; 
I know it would into me. How young she looks in that 
comical old dress which barely reaches her ankles ! Yes, 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 


195 

Hal Minturn ; and remember, that trim little ankle can put 
a firm foot down for or against you, — so no blundering.” 

He began to be doubtful whether he would make his 
grand attack that day, and finally decided against it, unless 
a very favorable opportunity occurred, until her plan of 
birthday-work had been carried out and he had fulfilled the 
obligation into which he had entered in the morning. He 
labored on manfully, seconding all her wishes, and taking 
much pains to get the young trees up with an abundance of 
fibrous roots. At last his assiduity induced her to relent a 
little, and she smiled sympathetically as she remarked, “ I 
hope you are enjoying yourself. Well, never mind; some 
other day you will fare better.” 

“ Why should I not enjoy myself ? ” he asked in well- 
feigned surprise. “ What condition of a good time is ab- 
sent? Even an April day has forgotten to be moody, and 
we are having unclouded, genial sunshine. The air is deli- 
cious with springtime fragrance. Were ever hemlocks so 
aromatic as these young fellows? They come out of the 
ground so readily that one would think them aware of their 
proud destiny. Of course I ’m enjoying myself. Even 
the robins and sparrows know it, and are singing as if 
possessed.” 

“ Had n’t you better give up your law-office and turn 
farmer? ” 

^'This isn’t farming. This is embroidery-work.” 

Well, if all these trees grow they will embroider the old 
place, won’t they? ” 

“ They ’ll grow, every mother’s son of ’em.” 

What makes you so confident? ” 

I ’m not confident. That ’s where you are mistaken.” 
And he gave her such a direct, keen look that she suddenly 
found something to do elsewhere. 


196 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ I declare ! ” she exclaimed mentally, “ he seems to 
read my very thoughts.” 

At last the wagon was loaded with trees enough to oc- 
cupy the holes which had been dug, and they started for the 
vicinity of the farm-house again. Mr. Banning had no 
match-making proclivities where Sue was concerned, as may 
be well understood, and had never been far off. Minturn, 
however, had appeared so single-minded in his work, so 
innocent of all designs upon his daughter, that the old man 
began to think that this day’s performance was only a ten- 
tative and preliminary skirmish, and that if there were dan- 
ger it lurked in the unknown future. He was therefore 
inclined to be less vigilant, reasoning philosophically, ‘‘ I 
suppose it ’s got to come some time or other. It looks as 
if Sue might go a good deal farther than this young man 
and fare worse. But then she ’s only eighteen, and he 
knows it. I guess he ’s got sense enough not to plant his 
com till the sun ’s higher. He can see with half an eye 
that my little girl isn’t ready to drop, like an over-ripe 
apple.” Thus mixing metaphors and many thoughts, he 
hurried ahead to open the gate for Hiram. 

“ I ’m in for it now,” thought Sue, and she instinctively 
assumed an indifferent expression and talked volubly of 
trees. 

‘‘ Yes, Miss Banning,” he said formally, by the time 
your hair is tinged with gray the results of this day’s labor 
will be seen far and wide. No passenger in the cars, no 
traveller in the valley, but will turn his eyes admiringly in 
this direction.” 

“ I was n’t thinking of travellers,” she answered, “ but of 
making an attractive home in which I can grow old con- 
tentedly. Some day when you have become a gray-haired 
and very dignified judge you may come out and dine with 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 


197 

US again. You can then smoke your cigar under a tree 
which you helped to plant.” 

“ Certainly, Miss Banning. With such a prospect, how 
could you doubt that I was enjoying myself? What sug- 
gested the judge? My present appearance?” 

The incongruity of the idea with his absurd aspect and a 
certain degree of nervousness set her off again, and she 
startled the robins by a laugh as loud and clear as their wild 
notes. 

“ I don’t care,” she cried. “ I ’ve had a jolly birthday, 
and am accomplishing all on which I had set my heart.” 

“ Yes, and a great deal more. Miss Banning,” he replied 
with a formal bow, “ In all your scheming you had n’t set 
your heart on my coming out and — does modesty permit 
me to say it? — helping a little.” 

‘‘ Now, you have helped wonderfully, and you must not 
think I don’t appreciate it.” 

Ah, how richly I am rewarded ! ” 

She looked at him with a laughing and perplexed little 
frown, but only said, “No irony, sir.” 

By this time they had joined her father and begun to set 
out the row of hemlocks. To her surprise. Sue had found 
herself a little disappointed that he had not availed himself 
of his one opportunity to be at least “ a bit friendly,” as she 
phrased it. It was mortifying to a girl to be expecting 
“something awkward to meet ” and nothing of the kind 
take place. “ After all,” she thought, “ perhaps he came 
out just for a lark, or worse still, is amusing himself at my 
expense; or he may 'have come on an exploring expedi- 
tion and plain old father and mother, and the plain little 
farm-house, have satisfied him. Well, the dinner wasn’t 
very plain, but he may have been laughing in his sleeve at 
our lack of style in serving it. Then this old dress ! I 


198 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

probably appear to him a perfect guy.” And she began to 
hate it, and devoted it to the rag-bag the moment she could 
get it off. 

This line of thought, once begun, seemed so rational that 
she wondered it had not occurred to her before. The 
idea of my being so ridiculously on the defensive ! ” she 
thought. “ No, it was n’t ridiculous either, as far as my 
action went, for he can never say I acted as if I wanted him 
to speak. My conceit in expecting him to speak the mo- 
ment he got a chance was absurd. He has begun to be 
very polite and formal. That ’s always the way with men 
when they want to back out of anything. He came out to 
look us over, and me in particular ; he made himself into a 
scarecrow just because I looked like one, and now will go 
home and laugh it all over with his city friends. Oh, why 
did he come and spoil my day? Even he said it was my 
day, and he has done a mean thing in spoiling it. Well, he 
may not carry as much self-complacency back to town as he 
thinks he will. Such a cold-blooded spirit, too ! — to come 
upon us unawares in order to spy out everything, for fear he 
might get taken in ! You were very attentive and flattering 
in the city, sir, but now you are disenchanted. Well, so 
am I.” 

Under the influence of this train of thought she grew more 
and more silent. The sun was sinking westward in un- 
dimmed splendor, but her face was clouded. The air was 
sweet, balmy, well adapted to sentiment and the setting out 
of trees, but she was growing frosty. 

“Hiram,” she said shortly, “you ’v^got that oak crooked ; 
let me hold it.” And thereafter she held the trees for the 
old colored man as he filled in the earth around them. 

Mintum appeared as oblivious as he was keenly observant. 
At first the change in Sue puzzled and discouraged him; 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 


199 


then, as his acute mind sought her motives, a rosy light 
begin to dawn upon him. I may be wrong,” he thought, 
“ but I ’ll take my chances in acting as if I were right before 
I go home.” 

At last Hiram said, Reckon I ’ll have to feed de critters 
again ; ” and he slouched off. 

Sue snipped at the young trees farther and farther away 
from the young man who must “ play spy before being 
lover.” The spy helped Mr. Banning set out the last tree. 
Meantime, the complacent farmer had mused, “The little 
girl’s safe for another while, anyhow. Never saw her more 
offish ; but things looked squally about dinner-time. Then, 
she’s only eighteen; time enough years hence.” At last 
he said affably, “ I ’ll go in and hasten supper, for you ’ve 
earned it if ever a man did, Mr. Minturn. Then I ’ll 
drive you down to the evening train.” And he hurried 
away. 

Sue’s back was toward them, and she did not hear Min- 
turn’s step until he was close beside her. “ All through,” 
he said ; “ every tree out. I congratulate you ; for rarely 
in this vale of tears are plans and hopes crowned with better 
success.” 

“Oh, yes,” she hastened to reply; “I am more than 
satisfied. I hope that you are too.” 

“I have no reason to complain,” he said. “You have 
stood by your morning’s bargain, as I have tried to.” 

“ It was your own fault, Mr. Minturn, that it was so one- 
sided. But I ’ve no doubt you enjoy spicing your city life 
with a little lark in the country.” 

“ It was a one-sided bargain, and I have had the best of 
it.” 

“ Perhaps you have,” she admitted. “ I think supper 
will be ready by the time we are ready for it.” And she 


200 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

turned toward the house. Then she added, “ You must be 
weary and anxious to get away.” 

“ You were right ; my bones do ache. And look at my 
hands. I know you ’ll say they need washing ; but count 
the blisters.” 

“ I also said, Mr. Minturn, that you would know better 
next time. So you see I was right then and am right 
now.” 

“ Are you perfectly sure? ” 

I see ,no reason to think otherwise.” In turning, she 
had faced a young sugar-maple which he had aided her in 
planting early in the afternoon. Now she snipped at it 
nervously with her pruning-shears, for he would not budge, 
and she felt it scarcely polite to leave him. 

Well,” he resumed, after an instant, “ it has a good 
look, has n’t it, for a man to fulfil an obligation literally? ” 

“ Certainly, Mr. Minturn,” and there was a tremor in her 
tone ; “ but you have done a hundredfold more than I ex- 
pected, and never were under any obligations.” 

“Then I am free to begin again?” 

“ You are as free now as you have been all day to do 
what you please.” And her shears were closing on the main 
stem of the maple. He caught and stayed her hand. “ I 
don’t care ! ” she cried almost passionately. “ Come, let 
us go in and end this foolish talk.” 

“ But I do care,” he replied, taking the shears from her, 
yet retaining her hand in his strong grasp. “ I helped you 
plant this tree, and whenever you see it, whenever you care 
for it, when, in time, you sit under its shade or wonder at 
its autumn hues, I wish you to remember that I told you of 
my love beside it. Dear little girl, do you think I am such a 
blind fool that I could spend this long day with you at your 
home and not feel sorry that I must ever go away? If I 


QUEEN OE SPADES. 


201 


could, my very touch should turn the sap of this maple into 
vinegar. To-day I Ve only tried to show how I can work 
for you. I am eager to begin again, and for life.” 

At first Sue had tried to withdraw her hand, but its tense- 
ness relaxed. As he spoke, she turned her averted face 
slowly toward him, and the rays of the setting sun flashed 
a deeper crimson into her cheeks. Her honest eyes looked 
into his and were satisfied. Then she suddenly gathered 
the young tree against her heart and kissed the stem she 
had so nearly severed. “This maple is witness to what 
you Ve said,” she faltered. “ Ah ! but it will be a sugar- 
maple in truth ; and if petting will make it live — there, 
now ! behave ! The idea ! right out on this bare lawn ! 
You must wait till the screening evergreens grow before — 
Oh, you audacious — I haven’t promised anything.” 

“ I promise everything. I ’m engaged, and only taking 
my retaining- fees.” 

“ Mother,” cried Farmer Banning at the dining-room 
window, “ just look yonder ! ” 

“ And do you mean to say, John Banning, that you did n’t 
expect it?” 

“ Why, Sue was growing more and more offish.” 

“ Of course ! Don’t you remember? ” 

“ Oh, this unlucky birthday ! As if trees could take Sue’s 
place ! ” 

“ Yah ! ” chuckled Hiram from the barn door, “ I knowed 
dat ar gem’lin was a-diggin’ a hole fer hisself on dis 
farm.” 

“ Mr. Minturn — ” Sue began as they came toward the 
house arm in arm. 

“ Hal — ” he internipted. 

“Well, then, Mr. Hal, you must promise me one thing 


202 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

in dead earnest. I ’m the only chick father and mother 
have. You must be very considerate of them, and let me 
give them as much of my time as I can. This is all that I 
stipulate ; but this I do.” 

Sue,” he said in mock solemnity, “ the prospects are 
that you ’ll be a widow.” 

Why do you make such an absurd remark ? ” 

“ Because you have struck amidships the commandment 
with the promise, and your days will be long in the land. 
You ’ll outlive everybody.” 

“ This will be no joke for father and mother.” 

So it would appear. They sat in the parlor as if waiting 
for the world to come to an end, — as indeed it had, one 
phase of it, to them. Their little girl, in a sense, was theirs 
no longer. ^ 

“ Father, mother,” said Sue, demurely, ‘‘ I must break 
some news to you.” 

It ’s broken already,” began Mrs. Banning, putting her 
handkerchief to her eyes. 

Sue’s glance renewed her reproaches for the scene on the 
lawn ; but Minturn went promptly forward, and throwing 
his arm around the matron’s plump shoulders, gave his first 
filial kiss. 

“ Come, mother,” he said, Sue has thought of you 
both ; and I ’ve given her a big promise that I won’t take 
any more of her away than I can help. And you, sir,” 
wringing the farmer’s hand, will often see a city tramp 
here who will be glad to work for his dinner. These over- 
alls are my witness.” 

Then they became conscious of his absurd figure, and the 
scene ended in laughter that was near akin to tears. 

The maple lived, you may rest assured ; and Sue’s 


QUEEN OF SPADES. 203 

children said there never was such sugar as the sap of that 
tree yielded. 

All the hemlocks, oaks, and dogwood thrived as if con- 
scious that theirs had been no ordinary transplanting ; while 
Minturn’s half-jesting prophecy concerning the travellers in 
the valley was amply fulfilled. 


AN UNEXPECTED RESULT. 


T ACK, she played with me deliberately, heartlessly. I 
J can never forgive her,” 

In that case, Will, I congratulate you. Such a girl 
is n’t worth a second thought, and you ’ve made a happy 
escape.” 

“No congratulations, if you please. You can talk 
coolly, because in regard to such matters you are cool, 
and, I may add, a trifle cold. Ambition is your mistress, 
and a musty law-book has more attractions for you than any 
woman living. I ’m not so tempered. I am subject to the 
general law of nature, and a woman’s love and sympathy 
are essential to success in my life and work.” 

“That’s all right; but there are as good fish — ” 

“ Oh, have done with your trite nonsense,” interrupted 
Will Munson, impatiently. “ I ’d consult you on a point of 
law in preference to most of the graybeards, but I was a 
fool to speak of this affair. And yet as my most intimate 
friend — ” 

“ Come, Will, I ’m not -unfeeling ; ” and John Ackland 
rose and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “ I admit 
that the subject is remote from my line of thought and 
wholly beyond my experience. If the affair is so serious 
I shall take it to heart.” 

“ Serious ! Is it a slight thing to be crippled for life? ” 


AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 


205 

Oh, come, now,” said Ackland, giving his friend a hearty 
and encouraging thump, you are sound in mind and limb ; 
what matters a scratch on the heart to a man not twenty- 
five?” 

“ Very well ; I ’ll say no more about it. When I need a 
lawyer I ’ll come to you. Good-by ; I sail for Brazil in the 
morning.” 

“Will, sit down and look me in the eyes,” said Ackland, 
decisively. “Will, forgive me. You are in trouble. A 
man’s eyes usually tell me more than all his words, and I 
don’t like the expression of yours. There is yellow fever 
in Brazil.” 

“ I know it,” was the careless reply. 

“ What excuse have you for going? ” ' '* 

“ Business complications have arisen there, and I promptly 
volunteered to go. My employers were kind enough to hes- 
itate and warn me, and to say that they could send a man 
less valuable to them, but I soon overcame their objections.” 

“That is your excuse for going. The reason I see in 
your eyes. You are reckless. Will.” 

“ I have reason to be.” 

“ I can’t agree with you, but I feel for you all the same. 
Tell me all about it, for this is sad news to me. I had 
hoped to join you on the beach in a few days, and to 
spend August with you and my cousin. I confess I am 
beginning to feel exceedingly vindicitive toward this pretty 
little monster, and if any harm comes to you I shall be 
savage enough to scalp her.” 

“ The harm has come already. Jack. I ’m hit hard. She 
showed me a mirage of happiness that has made my present 
world a desert. I am reckless ; I ’m desperate. You may 
think it is weak and unmanly, but you don’t know anything 
about it. Time or the fever may cure me, but now I airi 


2o6 taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


bankrupt in all that gives value to life. A woman with an 
art so consummate that it seemed artless, deliberately evoked 
the best there was in me, then threw it away as indifferently 
as a cast-off glove.” 

“Tell me how it came about.” 

“ How can I tell you ? How can I in cold blood recall 
glances, words, intonations, the pressure of a hand that 
seemed alive with reciprocal feeling? In addition to her 
beauty she had the irresistible charm of fascination. I was 
wary at first, but she angled for me with a skill that would 
have disarmed any man who did not believe in the inherent 
falseness of woman. The children in the house idolized 
her, and I have great faith in a child’s intuitions.” 

“Oh, that was only a part of her guile,” said Ackland, 
frowningly. 

“ Probably ; at any rate she has taken all the color and 
zest out of my life. I wish some one could pay her back 
in her own coin. I don’t suppose she has a heart ; but I 
wish her vanity might be wounded in a way that would 
teach her a lesson never to be forgotten.” 

“ It certainly would be a well-deserved retribution,” said 
Ackland, musingly. 

“ Jack, you are the one, of all the world, to administer 
the punishment. I don’t believe a woman’s smiles ever 
quickened your pulse one beat.” 

“You are right, Will, it is my cold-bloodedness — to put 
your thought in plain English — that will prove your best 
ally.” 

“ I only hope that I am not leading you into danger. 
You will need an Indian’s stoicism.” 

“ Bah ! I may fail ignominiously, and find her vanity in- 
vulnerable, but I pledge you my word that I will avenge 
you if it be within the compass of my skill. My cousin, 


AJV UNEXPECTED RESULT. 


207 

Mrs. Alston, may prove a useful ally. I think you wrote me 
that the name of this siren was Eva Van Tyne ? ” 

Yes ; I only wish she had the rudiments of a heart, so 
that she might feel in a faint, far-off way a little of the 
pain she has inflicted on me. Don’t let her make you falter 
or grow remorseful, Jack. Remember that you have given 
a pledge to one who may be dead before you can fulfil it.” 

Ackland said farewell to his friend with the fear that he 
might never see him again, and a few days later found 
himself at a New England seaside resort, with a relentless 
purpose lurking in his dark eyes. Mrs. Alston did uncon- 
sciously prove a useful ally, for her wealth and elegance 
gave her unusual prestige in the house, and in joining her 
party Ackland achieved immediately all the social recogni- 
tion he desired. 

While strolling with this lady on the piazza he observed 
the object of his quest, and was at once compelled to make 
more allowance than he had done hitherto for his friend’s 
discomfiture. Two or three children were leaning over the 
young girl’s chair, and she was amusing them by some 
clever caricatures. She was not so interested, however, but 
that she soon noted the new-comer, and bestowed upon 
him from time to time curious and furtive glances. That 
these were not returned seemed to occasion her some sur- 
prise, for she was not accustomed to be so utterly ignored, 
even by a stranger. A little later Ackland saw her consult- 
ing the hotel register. 

“ I have at least awakened her curiosity,” he thought. 

“ I ’ve been waiting for you to ask me who that pretty 
girl is,” said Mrs. Alston, laughing ; “ you do indeed exceed 
all men in indifference to women.” 

know all about that girl,” was the grim reply. ^^She 
has played the very deuce with my friend Munson.” 


2 o 8 taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Alston, indignantly, “ it was the most 
shameful piece of coquetry I ever saw. She is a puzzle to 
me. To the children and the old people in the house she 
is consideration j^nd kindness itself y but she appears to re- 
gard men of your years as legitimate game and is perfectly 
remorseless. So beware ! She is dangerous, invulnerable 
as you imagine yourself to be. 6he will practise her wiles 
upon you if you give her half a chance, and her art has 
much more than her pretty face to enforce it. She is un- 
usually clever.” 

Ackland’s slight shrug was so contemptuous that his cousin 
was nettled, and she thought, “ I wish the girl could disturb 
his complacent equinamity just a little. It vexes one to see 
a man so indifferent ; it ’s a slight to woman ; ” and she de- 
termined to give Miss Van Tyne the vantage-ground of an 
introduction at the first opportunity. 

And this occurred before the evening was over. To her 
surprise Ackland entered into an extended conversation 
with the enemy. “ Well,” she thought, “ if he begins in 
this style there will soon be another victim. Miss Van Tyne 
can talk to as bright a man as he is and hold her own. 
Meanwhile she will assail him in a hundred covert ways. 
Out of regard for his friend he should have shown some 
disapproval of her ; but there he sits quietly talking in the 
publicity of the parlor.” 

“ Mrs. Alston,” said a friend at her elbow, “ you ought to 
forewarn your cousin and tell him of Mr. Munson’s fate.” 

“ He knows all about Mr. Munson,” was her reply. “ In- 
deed, the latter is his most intimate friend. I suppose my 
cousin is indulging in a little natural curiosity concerning 
this destroyer of masculine peace, and if ever a man could 
do so in safety he can.” 

“ Why so? ” 


UNEXPECTED RESULT 


209 


“ Well, I never knew so unsusceptible a man. With the 
exception of a few of his relatives, he has never cared for 
ladies’ society.” 

Mrs. Alston was far astray in supposing that curiosity was 
Ackland’s motive in his rather prolonged conversation with 
Miss Van Tyne. It was simply part of his tactics, for he 
proposed to waste no time in skirmishing or in guarded and 
gradual approaches. He would cross weapons at once, and 
secure his object by a sharp and aggressive campaign. His 
object was to obtain immediately some idea of the calibre 
of the girl’s mind, and in this respect he was agreeably sur- 
prised, for while giving little evidence of thorough education, 
she was unusually intelligent and exceedingly quick in her 
perceptions. He soon learned also that she was gifted with 
more than woman’s customary intuition, that she was watch- 
ing his face closely for meanings that he might not choose 
to express in words or else to conceal by his language. 
While he feared that his task would be far more difficult 
than he expected, and that he would have to be extremely 
guarded in order not to reveal his design, he was glad to 
learn that the foe was worthy of his steel. Meanwhile her 
ability and self-reliance banished all compunction. He had 
no scruples in humbling the pride of a woman who was at 
once so proud, so heartless, and so clever. Nor would the 
effort be wearisome, for she had proved herself both amus- 
ing and interesting. He might enjoy it quite as much as 
an intricate law-case. 

Even prejudiced Ackland, as he saw her occasionally on 
the following day, was compelled to admit that she was 
more than pretty. Her features were neither regular nor 
faultless. Her mouth was too large to be perfect and her 
nose was not Grecian ; but her eyes were peculiarly fine and 
illumined her face, whose chief charm lay in its power of 

14 


210 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


expression. If she chose, almost all her thoughts and feel- 
ings could find their reflex there. The trouble was that she 
could as readily mask her thought and express what she 
did not feel. Her eyes were of the darkest blue and her 
hair seemed light in contrast. It was evident that she had 
studied grace so thoroughly that her manner and carriage 
appeared unstudied and natural. She never seemed self- 
conscious, and yet no one had ever seen her in an ungainly 
posture or had known her to make an awkward gesture. 
This grace, however, like a finished style in writing, was 
tinged so strongly with her own individuality that it appeared 
original as compared with the fashionable monotony which 
characterized the manners of so many of her age. She 
could not have been much more than twenty ; and yet, as 
Mrs. Alston took pains to inform her cousin, she had long 
been in society, adding, “ Its homage is her breath of life, 
and from all I hear your friend Munson has had many pre- 
decessors. Be on your guard.” 

“Your solicitude in my behalf is quite touching,” he 
replied. “Who is this fair buccaneer that has made so 
many wrecks and exacts so heavy a revenue from society? 
Who has the care of her and what are her antecedents? ” 

“ She is an orphan, and possessed, I am told, of consid- 
erable property in her own name. A forceless, nerveless 
maiden aunt is about the only antecedent we see much of. 
Her guardian has been here once or twice, but practically 
she is independent.” 

Miss Van Tyne’s efforts to learn something concerning 
Ackland were apparently quite as casual and indifferent and 
yet were made with utmost skill. She knew that Mrs. 
Alston’s friend was something of a gossip ; and she led her 
to speak of the subject of her thoughts with an indirect 
finesse that would have amused the young man exceedingly 


AJV UNEXPECTED RESULT 


211 


could he have been an unobserved witness. When she 
learned that he was Mr. Munson’s intimate friend and that 
he was aware of her treatment of the latter, she was some- 
what disconcerted. One so forewarned migkt not become 
an easy prey. But the additional fact that he was almost a 
woman-hater put her upon her mettle at once, and she fell 
that here was a chance for a conquest such as she had never 
made before. She now believed that she had discovered 
the key to his indifference. He was ready enough to amuse 
himself with her as a clever woman, but knew her too well 
to bestow upon her even a friendly thought. 

“ If I can bring him to my feet it will be a triumph in- 
deed,” she murmured exultantly ; “ and at my feet he shall 
be if he gives me half a chance.” Seemingly he gave her 
every chance that she could desire, and while he scarcely 
made any effort to seek her society, she noted with secret 
satisfaction that he often appeared as if accidentally near 
her, and that he ever made it the easiest and most natural 
thing in the world for her to join him. His conversation 
was often as gay and unconventional as she could wish ; but 
she seldom failed to detect in it an uncomfortable element 
of satire and irony. He always left her dissatisfied with 
herself and with a depressing consciousness that she had 
made no impression upon him. 

His conquest grew into an absorbing desire ; and she un- 
obtrusively brought to bear upon him every art and fascina- 
tion that she possessed. Her toilets were as exquisite as 
they were simple. The children were made to idolize her 
more than ever ; but Ackland was candid enough to admit 
that this was not all guile on her part, for she was evidently 
in sympathy with the little people, who can rarely be im- 
posed upon by any amount of false interest. Indeed, he 
saw no reason to doubt that she abounded in good-nature 


212 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

toward all except the natural objects of her ruling passion ; 
but the very skill and deliberateness with which she sought 
to gratify this passion greatly increased his vindictive feel- 
ing. He saw how naturally and completely his friend had 
been deceived and how exquisite must have been the hopes 
and anticipations so falsely raised. Therefore he smiled 
more grimly at the close of each succeeding day, and was 
more than ever bent upon the accomplishment of his 
purpose. 

At length Miss Van Tyne changed her tactics and grew 
quite oblivious to Ackland’s presence in the house ; but she 
found him apparently too indifferent to observe the fact. 
She then permitted one of her several admirers to become 
devoted ; Ackland did not offer the protest of even a glance. 
He stood, as it were, just where she had left him, ready for 
an occasional chat, stroll, or excursion, if the affair came 
about naturally and without much effort on his part. She 
found that she cculd neither induce him to seek her nor 
annoy him by an indifference which she meant should be 
more marked than his own. 

Some little time after there came a windy day when the 
surf was so heavy that there were but few bathers. Ackland 
was a good swimmer, and took his plunge as usual. He 
was leaving the water when Miss Van Tyne ran down the 
beach and was about to dart through the breakers in her 
wonted fearless style. 

Be careful,” he said to her ; “ the undertow is strong, 
and the man who has charge of the bathing is ill and not 
here. The tide is changing, — in fact, running out already, 
I believe.” But she would not even look at him, much less 
answer. As there were other gentlemen present, he started 
for his bath-house, but had proceeded but a little way up the 
beach before a cry brought him to the water’s edge instantly. 


AJV UNEXPECTED RESULT. 


213 

“ Something is wrong with Miss Van Tyne,” cried half a 
dozen voices. ‘‘ She ventured out recklessly,* and it seems 
as if she could n’t get back.” 

At that moment her form rose on the crest of a wave, and 
above the thunder of the surf came her faint cry, “ Help ! ” 

The other bathers stood irresolute, for she was danger- 
ously far out, and the tide had evidently turned. Ackland, 
on the contrary, dashed through the breakers and then, in 
his efforts for speed, dove through the waves nearest to the 
shore. When he reached the place where he expected to 
find her he saw nothing for a moment or two but great 
crested billows that every moment were increasing in height 
under the rising wind. For a moment he feared that she 
had perished, and the thought that the beautiful creature 
had met her death so suddenly and awfully made him almost 
sick and faint. An instant later, however, a wave threw her 
up from the trough of the sea into full vision somewhat on 
his right, and a few strong strokes brought him to her side. 

“ Oh, save me ! ” she gasped. 

“ Don’t cling to me,” he said sternly. “ Do as I bid you. 
Strike out for the shore if you are able ; if not, lie on your 
back and float.” 

She did the latter, for now that aid had reached her she 
apparently recovered from her panic and was perfectly 
tractable. He placed his left hand under her and struck 
out quietly, aware that the least excitement causing exhaus- 
tion on his part might cost both of them their lives. 

As they approached the shore a rope was thrown to them, 
and Ackland, who felt his strength giving way, seized it 
desperately. He passed his arm around his companion 
with a grasp that almost made her breathless, and they were 
dragged, half suffocated, through the water until strong hands 
on either side rushed them through the breakers. 


214 taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

Miss Van Tyne for a moment or two stood dazed and 
panting, then disengaged herself from the rather warm sup- 
port of the devoted admirer whom she had tried to play 
against Ackland, and tried to walk, but after a few uncertain 
steps fell senseless on the sand, thus for the moment drawing 
to herself the attention of the increasing throng. Ackland, 
glad to escape notice, was staggering off to his bath-house 
when several ladies, more mindful of his part in the affair 
than the men had been, overtook him with a fire of ques- 
tions and plaudits. 

Please leave me alone,” he said almost savagely, with- 
out looking around. 

“ What a bear he is ! Any one else would have been a 
little complacent over such an exploit,” they chorused, as 
they followed the unconscious girl, who was now being car- 
ried to the hotel. 

Ackland locked the door of his little apartment and sank 
panting on the bench. “ Maledictions on her ! ” he mut- 
tered. At one time there was a better chance of her being 
fatal to me than to Munson with his yellow-fever tragedy in 
prospect. Her recklessness to-day was perfectly insane. 
If she tries it again she may drown for all that I care, or at 
least ought to care.” 

His anger appeared to act like a tonic, and he was soon 
ready to return to the house. A dozen sprang forward to 
congratulate him, but they found such impatience and an- 
noyance at all reference to the affair that with many sur- 
mises the topic was dropped. 

“You are a queer fellow,” remarked his privileged cousin, 
as he took her out to dinner. “ Why don’t you let people 
speak naturally about the matter, or rather, why don’t you 
pose as the hero of the occaSon? ” 

“ Because the whole affair was most unnatural, and I am 


AAT UNEXPECTED RESULT. 


215 


deeply incensed. In a case of necessity I am ready to risk 
my life, although it has unusual attractions for me ; but I ’m 
no melodramatic hero looking for adventures. What neces- 
sity was there in this case ? It is the old story of Munson 
over again in another guise. The act was that of an incon- 
siderate, heartless woman who follows her impulses and in- 
clinations, no matter what may be the consequences.” After 
a moment he added less indignantly, “I must give her 
credit for one thing, angry as I am, — she behaved well in 
the water, otherwise she would have drowned me.” 

“ She is not a fool. Most women would have drowned 
you.” 

“ She is indeed not a fool ; therefore she ’s the more to 
blame. If she is ever so reckless again, may I be asleep in 
my room. Of course one can’t stand by and see a woman 
drown, no matter who or what she is.” 

“Jack, what made her so reckless? ” Mrs. Alston asked, 
with a sudden intelligence lighting up her face. 

“ Hang it all ! How should I know ? What made her 
torture Munson? She follows her impulses, and they are 
not always conducive to any one’s well-being, not even her 
own.” 

“ Mark my words, she has never shown this kind of reck- 
lessness before.” 

“ Oh, yes, she has. She was running her horse to death 
the other hot morning and nearly trampled on a child ; ” 
and he told of an unexpected encounter while he was taking 
a rather extended ramble. 

“Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Alston, smiling significantly, 
“ I think I understand her symptoms better than you do. 
If you are as cold-blooded as you seem, I may have to 
interfere.” 

“ Oh, bah ! ” he answered impatiently. “ Pardon me, but 


2 i 6 taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


I should despise myself forever should I become sentimental, 
knowing what I do.” 

Jack, had you no compunctions when fearing that such 
a beautiful girl might perish? We are going to have an 
awful night. Hear the wind whistle and moan, and the sky 
is already black with clouds. The roar of the surf grows 
louder every hour. Think of that lovely form being out in 
those black angry waves, darted at and preyed upon by 
horrible slimy monsters. Oh, it fairly makes my flesh 
creep ! ” 

“ And mine too,” he said with a strong gesture of dis- 
gust ; “ especially when I remember that I should have 
kept her company, for of course I could not return without 
her. I confess that when at first I could not find her I was 
fairly sick at the thought of her fate. But remember how 
uncalled for it all was, — quite as much so as that poor 
Will Munson is on his way to die with the yellow fever, like 
enough.” 

Jack,” said his cousin, affectionately, laying her hand on 
his arm, “ blessings on your courage to-day ! If what might 
have happened so easily had occurred, I could never have 
looked' upon the sea again without a shudder. I should 
have been tormented by a horrible memory all my life. It 
was brave and noble — ” 

“ Oh, hush ! ” he said angrily. “ I won’t hear another 
word about it even from you. I ’m not brave and noble. 
I went because I was compelled to go ; I hated to go. I 
hate the girl, and have more reason now than ever. If we 
had both drowned, no doubt there would have been less 
trouble in the world. There would have been one lawyer 
the less, and a coquette extinguished. Now we shall both 
prey on society in our different ways indefinitely.” 

“Jack, you are in an awful mood to-day.” 


AN UNEXPECTED RESULT. * 217 

I am ; never was in a worse.” 

Having so narrowly escaped death, you ought to be sub- 
dued and grateful.” 

“ On the contrary, I ’m inclined to profanity. Excuse 
me ; don’t wish any dessert. I ’ll try a walk and a cigar. 
You will now be glad to be rid of me on any terms.” 

“Stay, Jack. See, Miss Van Tyne has so far recovered 
as to come down. She looked unutterable things at you as 
she entered.” 

“ Of course she did. Very few of her thoughts concern- 
ing me or other young men would sound well if uttered. 
Tell your friends to let this topic alone, or I shall be rude 
to them,” and without a glance toward the girl he had 
rescued he left the dining-room. 

“ Well, well,” murmured Mrs. Alston, “ I never saw Jack 
in such a mood b«fore. It is quite as unaccountable as 
Miss Van Tyne’s recklessness. I wonder what is the mat- 
ter with him.^' 

Ackland was speedily driven back from his walk by the 
♦ rain, which fact he did not regret, for he found himself ex- 
hausted and depressed. Seeking a retired piazza in order 
to be alone, he sat down with his hat drawn over his eyes 
and smoked furiously. Before very long, however, he was 
startled out of a painful revery by a timid voice saying, — 

“ Mr. Ackland, won’t you permit me to thank you ? ” 

He rose. Miss Van Tyne stood before him with out- 
stretched hand. He did not notice it, but bowing coldly, 
said, — 

“ Please consider that you have thanked me and let the 
subject drop.” 

“ Do not be so harsh with me,” she pleaded. “ I cannot 
help it if you are. Mr. Ackland, you saved my life.” 

“ Possibly.” 


2i8 Taken alive : and other stories. 


“ And possibly you think that it is scarcely worth saving.” 

“ Possibly your own conscience suggested that thought to 
you.” 

** You are heartless,” she burst out indignantly. 

He began to laugh. That ’s a droll charge for you to 
make,” he said. 

She looked at him steadfastly for a moment, and then 
murmured, You are thinking of your friend, Mr. Munson.” 

“ That would be quite natural. How many more can you 
think of ? ” 

“ You are indeed unrelenting,” she faltered, tears coming 
into her eyes ; “ but I cannot forget that but for you I should 
now be out there” — and she indicated the sea by a gesture, 
then covered her face with her hands, and shuddered. 

“ Do not feel under obligations. I should have, been 
compelled to do as much for any human being. You seem 
to forget that I stood an even chance of being out there 
with you, and that there was no more need of the risk than 
there was’ that my best friend’s life should be blight — ” 

“You — you out there?” she cried, springing toward 
him and pointing to the sea. 

“ Certainly. You cannot suppose that having once found 
you, I could come ashore without you. As it was, my 
strength was rapidly giving way, and were it not for the 
rope — ” 

“ Oh, forgive me,” she cried passionately, seizing his hand 
in spite of him. “ It never entered my mind that you 
could drown. I somehow felt that nothing could harm you. 
I was reckless — I did n’t know what I was doing — I don’t 
understand myself any more. Please — please forgive 
me, or I shall not sleep to-night.” 

“ Certainly,” he said lightly, “ if you will not refer to our 
little episode again.” 


AJ\r UNEXPECTED RESULT. 219 

Please don’t speak in that way,” she sighed, turning 
away. 

“ I have complied with your request.” 

‘‘ I suppose I must be content,” she resumed sadly. 
Then turning her head slowly toward him she added hesi- 
tatingly, Will you forgive me for — for treating your 
friend — ” 

“No,” he replied, with such stem emphasis that she 
shrank from him and trembled. 

“ You are indeed heartless,” she faltered, as she turned 
to leave him. 

“ Miss Van Tyne,” he said indignantly, “ twice you have 
charged me with being heartless. Your voice and manner 
indicate that I would be unnatural and unworthy of respect 
were \ what you charge. In the name of all that ’s rational 
what does this word ^ heartless ’ mean to you ? Where was 
your heart when you sent my friend away so wretched and 
humbled that he is virtually seeking the death from which 
you are so glad to escape?” 

“ I did not love him,” she protested faintly. 

He laughed bitterly, and continued, “ Love ! That ’s a 
word which I believe has no meaning for you at all, but 
it had for him. You are a remarkably clever woman. Miss 
Van Tyne. You have brains in abundance. See, I do you 
justice. What is more, you are beautiful and can be so 
fascinating that a man who believed in you might easily 
worship you. You made him believe in you. You tried to 
beguile me into a condition that with my nature would 
be ruin indeed. You never had the baby plea of a silly, 
shallow woman. I took pains to find that out the first 
evening we met. In your art of beguiling an honest, trust- 
ing man you were as perfect as you were remorseless, and 
you understood exactly what you were doing.” 


220 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES, 

For a time she seemed overwhelmed by his lava-like 
torrent of words, and stood with bowed head and shrinking, 
trembling form ; but when he ceased she turned to him and 
said bitterly and emphatically, — 

“ I did not understand what I was doing, nor would my 
brain have taught me were I all intellect like yourself. I 
half wish you had left me to drown,” and with a slight, 
despairing gesture she turned away and did not look 
back. 

Ackland’s face lighted up with a sudden flash of intelli- 
gence and deep feeling. He started to recall her, hesitated, 
and watched her earnestly until she disappeared ; then 
looking out on the scowling ocean, he took off his hat and 
exclaimed in a deep, low tone, — 

By all that ’s divine, can this be ? Is it possible that 
through the suffering of her own awakening heart she is 
learning to know the pain she has given to others? Should 
this be true, the affair is taking an entirely new aspect, and 
Munson will be avenged as neither of us ever dreamed 
would be possible.” 

He resumed his old position and thought long and deeply, 
then rejoined his cousin, who was somewhat surprised to 
find that his bitter mood had given place to his former 
composure. 

“ How is this, Jack?” she asked. ‘‘As the storm grows 
wilder without, you become more serene.” 

“ Only trying to make amends for my former bearishness,” 
he said carelessly, but with a little rising color. 

“ I don’t understand you at all,” she continued discon- 
tentedly. “ I saw you sulking in that out-of-the-way corner, 
and I saw Miss Van Tyne approach you hesitatingly and 
timidly, with the purpose, no doubt, of thanking you. Of 
course I did not stay to watch, but a little later I met Miss 


AN UNEXPECTED RESULT. 


221 


Van Tyne, and she looked white and rigid. She has not 
left her room since.” 

“ You take a great interest in Miss Van Tyne. It is well 
you are not in my place.” 

“ I half wish I was and had your chances. You are more 
pitiless than the waves from which you saved her.” 

“ I can’t help being just what I am,” he said coldly. 

Good-night.” And he too disappeared for the rest of the 
evening. 

The rain continued to fall in blinding torrents, and the 
building fairly trembled under the violence of the wind. 
The guests drew together in the lighted rooms, and sought 
by varied amusements to pass the time until the fierceness 
of the storm abated, few caring to retire while the uproar of 
* the elements was so great. 

At last as the storm passed away, and the late-rising 
moon threw a sickly gleam on the tumultuous waters, Eva 
looked from her window with sleepless eyes, thinking sadly 
and bitterly of the past and future. Suddenly a dark fig- 
ure appeared on the beach in the track of the moonlight. 
She snatched an opera-glass, but could not recognize the 
solitary form. The thought would come, however, that it 
was Ackland ; and if it were, what were his thoughts and 
what place had she in them ? Why was he watching so 
near the spot that might have been their burial-place? 

‘‘At least he shall not think that I can stolidly sleep 
after what has occurred,” she thought, and she turned up 
her light, opened her window, and sat down by it again. 
Whoever the unseasonable rambler might be, he appeared 
to recognize the gleam from her window, for he walked 
hastily down the beach and disappeared. After a time she 
darkened her room again and waited in vain for his return. 
“If it were he, he shuns even the slightest recognition,” 


222 TAKEN- ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

she thought despairingly ; and the early dawn was not far 
distant when she fell into an unquiet sleep. 

For the nej^ew days Miss Van Tyne was a puzzle to all 
except Mrs. Alston. She was quite unlike the girl she had 
formerly been, and she made no effort to disguise the fact. 
In the place of her old exuberance of life and spirits, there 
was lassitude and great depression. The rich color ebbed 
steadily from her face, and dark lines under her eyes 
betokened sleepless nights. She saw the many curious 
glances in her direction, but apparently did not care what 
was thought or surmised. Were it not that her manner to 
Ackland Avas so misleading, the tendency to couple their 
names together would have been far more general. She 
neither sought nor shunned his society ; in fact, she treated 
him as she did the other gentlemen of her acquaintance. 
She took him at his word. He had said he would forgive 
her on condition that she would not speak of what he was 
pleased to term that “ little episode,” and she never referred 
to it. 

Her aunt was as much at fault as the others, and one day 
querulously complained to Mrs. Alston that she was growing 
anxious about Eva. “At first I thought she was disap- 
pointed over the indifference of that icy cousin of yours ; 
but she does not appear to care a straw for him. When I 
mention his name she speaks of him in a natural, grateful 
way, then her thoughts appear to wander off to some mat- 
ter that is troubling her. I can’t find out whether she is ill 
or whether she has heard some bad news of which she will 
not speak. She never gave me or any one that I know of 
much of her confidence.” 

Mrs. Alston listened but made no comments. She was 
sure she was right in regard to Miss Van Tyne’s trouble, 
but her cousin mystified her. Ackland had become per- 


AN UNEXPECTED RESULT. 


223 


fectly inscrutable. As far as she could judge by any word 
or act of his he had simply lost his interest in Miss Van 
Tyne, and that was all that could be said ; and yet a fine 
instinct tormented Mrs. Alston with the doubt that this was 
not true and that the young girl was the subject of a sedu- 
lously-concealed scrutiny. Was he watching for his friend 
or for his own sake, or was he, in a spirit of retaliation, 
enjoying the suffering of one who had made others suffer? 
His reserve was so great that she could not pierce it, and 
his caution baffled even her vigilance. But she waited pa- 
tiently, assured that the little drama must soon pass into a 
more significant phase. 

And she was right. Miss Van Tyne could not maintain 
the line of action she had resolved upon. She had thought, 

I won’t try to appear happy when I am not. I won’t 
adopt the conventional mask of gayety when the heart is 
wounded. How often I have seen through it and smiled 
at the transparent farce, — farce it seemed then, but I now 
fear it was often tragedy. At any rate there was neither 
dignity nor deception in it. I have done with being false, 
and so shall simply act myself and be a true woman. 
Though my heart break a thousand times, not even by a 
glance shall I show that it is breaking for him. If he or 
others surmise the truth they may ; let them. It is a part 
of my penance ; and I will show the higher, stronger pride 
of one who makes no vain, useless pretence to happy in- 
difference, but who can maintain a self-control so perfect 
that even Mrs. Alston shall not see one unmaidenly advance 
or overture.” 

She succeeded for a time, as we have seen, but she over- 
rated her will and underrated her heart, that with deepening 
intensity craved the love denied her. With increasing fre- 
quency she said to herself, “ I must go away. My only 


224 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


courie is to hide my weakness and never see him again. 
He is inflexible, yet his very obduracy increases my love 
a hundredfold.” 

At last after a lonely walk on the beach she concluded, 
“ My guardian must take me home on Monday next. He 
comes to-night to spend Sunday with us, and I will make 
preparations to go at once.” 

Although her resolution did not fail her, she walked for- 
ward more and more slowly, her dejection and weariness 
becoming almost overpowering. As she was turning a 
sharp angle of rocks that Jutted well down to the water she 
came face to face with Ackland and Mrs. Alston. She was 
off her guard ; and her thoughts of him had been so absorb- 
ing that she felt he must be conscious of them. She flushed 
painfully and hurried by with slight recognition and down- 
cast face, but she had scarcely passed them when, acting 
under a sudden impulse, she stopped and said in a low 
tone, — 

“ Mr. Ackland — ” 

He turned expectantly toward her. For a moment she 
found it difficult to speak, then ignoring the presence of 
Mrs. Alston, resolutely began, — 

“ Mr. Ackland, I must refer once more to a topic which 
you have in a sense forbidden. I feel partially absolved, 
however, for I do not think you have forgiven me anything. 
At any rate I must ask your pardon once more for having 
so needlessly and foolishly imperilled your life. I say these 
words now because I may not have another opportunity ; 
we leave on Monday.” With this she raised her eyes to 
his with an appeal for a little kindness which Mrs. Alston 
was confident could not be resisted. Indeed, she was sure 
that she saw a slight nervous tremor in Ackland ’s hands, as 
if he found it hard to control himself. Then he appeared 


A AT UNEXPECTED RESULT. 


225 

to grow rigid. Lifting his hat, he said gravely and un- 
responsively, — 

“ Miss Van Tyne, you now surely have made ample 
amends. Please forget the whole affair.” 

She turned from him at once, but not so quickly but that 
both he and his cousin saw the bitter tears that would come. 

A moment later she was hidden by the angle of the rock. 
As long as she was visible Ackland watched her without 
moving, then he slowly turned to his cousin, his face as 
inscrutable as ever. She walked at his side for a few 
moments in ill-concealed impatience, then stopped and 
said decisively, — 

“ I ’ll go no farther with you to-day. I am losing all 
respect for you.” 

Without speaking, he turned to accompany her back to 
the house. His reticence and coldness appeared to annoy 
her beyond endurance, for she soon stopped and sat down 
on a ledge of the rocks that jutted down the beach where 
they had met Miss Van Tyne. 

John, you are the most unnatural man I ever saw in 
my life,” she began angrily. 

What reason have you for so flattering an opinion,” he 
asked coolly. 

You have been giving reason for it every day since you 
came here,” she resumed hotly. “ I always heard it said 
that you had no heart ; but I defended you and declared 
that your course toward your mother even when a boy 
showed that you had, and that you would prove it some 
day. But I now believe that you are unnaturally cold, 
heartless, and unfeeling. I had no objection to your wound- ’ 
ing Miss Van Tyne’s vanity and encouraged you when that 
alone bid fair to suffer. But when she proved she had a 
heart and that you had awakened it, she deserved at least 

15 


226 TAKEN ALIVE : AND OTHER STORIES. 

kindness and consideration on your part. If you could not 
return her affection, you should have gone away at once ; 
but I believe that you have stayed for the sole and cruel 
purpose of gloating over her suffering.” 

‘‘ She has not suffered more than my friend, or than I 
would if — ” 

You indeed ! The idea of your suffering from any 
such cause ! I half believe you came here with the de- 
liberate purpose of avenging your friend, and that you are 
keeping for his inspection a diary in which the poor girl’s 
humiliation to-day will form the hateful climax.” 

They did not dream that the one most interested was 
near. Miss Van Tyne had felt too faint and sorely wounded 
to go farther without rest. Believing that the rocks would 
hide her from those whose eyes she would most wish to 
shun, she had thrown herself down beyond the angle and 
was shedding the bitterest tears that she had ever known. 
Suddenly she heard Mrs. Alston’s words but a short dis- 
tance away, and was so overcome by their import that she 
hesitated what to do. She would not meet them again 
for the world, but felt so weak that she doubted whether she 
could drag herself away without being discovered, especially 
as the beach trended off to the left so sharply a little farther 
on that they might discover her. While she was looking 
vainly for some way of escape she heard Ackland’s words 
and Mrs. Alston’s surmise in reply that he had come with 
the purpose of revenge. She was so stung by their ap- 
parent truth that she resolved to clamber up through an 
opening of the rocks if the thing were possible. Panting 
and exhausted she gained the summit, and then hastened 
to an adjacent grove, as some wounded, timid creature 
would run to the nearest cover. Ackland had heard sounds 
and had stepped around the point of the rocks just in time 



Site sprang to meet Ackland, standing with folded Arms, 


Taken Alive, 


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AJV UNEXPECTED RESULT 


227 

to see her disappearing above the bank. Returning to Mrs. 
Alston, he said impatiently, — 

“ In view of your opinions my society can have no 
attractions for you. Shall I accompany you to the 
hotel?” 

“ No,” was the angry reply. I ’m in no mood to speak 
to you again to-day.” 

He merely bowed and turned as if to pursue his walk. 
The moment she was hidden, however, he also climbed the 
rocks in time to see Miss Van Tyne entering the grove. 
With swift and silent tread he followed her, but could not 
at once discover her hiding-place. At last passionate sobs 
made it evident that she was concealed behind a great oak 
a little on his left. Approaching cautiously, he heard her 
moan, — 

“ Oh, this is worse than death ! He makes me feel as if 
even God had no mercy for me. But I will expiate my 
wrong ; I will, at the bitterest sacrifice which a woman 
can make.” 

She sprang up to meet Ackland standing with folded 
arms before her. She started violently and leaned against 
the tree for support. But the weakness was momentary, 
for she wiped the tears from her eyes, and then turned to 
him so quietly that only her extreme pallor proved that she 
realized the import of her words. 

“ Mr. Ackland,” she asked, have you Mr. Munson’s 
address ? ” 

It was his turn now to start, but he merely answered, 
“ Yes.” 

“ Do — do you think he still cares for me? ” 
Undoubtedly.” 

Since then you are so near a friend, will you write to 
him that I will try ” — she turned away and would not look 


228 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

at him as, after a moment’s hesitation, she concluded her 
sentence, — “I will try to make him as happy as I can.” 

“ Do you regret your course ? ” he asked with a slight 
tremor in his voice. 

I regret that I misled — that I wronged him beyond 
all words. I am willing to make all the amends in my 
power.” 

Do you love him? ” 

She now turned wholly away and shook her head. 

“And yet you would marry him? ” 

“ Yes, if he wished it, knowing all the truth.” 

“Can you believe he would wish it?” he asked in- 
dignantly. “ Can you believe that any man — ” 

“ Then avenge him to your cruel soul’s content,” she ex- 
claimed passionately. “ Tell him that I have no heart to 
give to him or to any one. Through no effort or fault of mine 
I overheard Mrs. Alston’s words and yours. I know your 
design against me. Assuage your friend’s grief by assuring 
him of your entire success, of which you are already so well 
aware. Tell him how you triumphed over an untaught, 
thoughtless girl who was impelled merely by the love of power 
and excitement, as you are governed by ambition and a re- 
morseless will. I did not know — I did not understand how 
cruel I was, although now that I do know I shall never for- 
give myself. But if you had the heart of a man you might 
have seen that you were subjecting me to torture. I did 
not ask or expect that you should care for me ; but I had a 
right to hope for a little kindness, a little manly and delicate 
consideration, a little healing sympathy for the almost mortal 
wound that you have made. But I now see that you have 
stood by and watched like a grand inquisitor. Tell your 
friend that you have transformed the thoughtless girl into 
a suffering woman. I cannot go to Brazil. I cannot face 


AN UNEXPECTED RESULT. 


229 


dangers that might bring rest. I must keep my place in 
society, — keep it too under a hundred observant and curi- 
ous eyes. You have seen it all of late in this house ; I was 
too wretched to care. It was a part of my punishment, 
and I accepted it. I would not be false again even in try- 
ing to conceal a secret which it is like death to a woman 
to reveal. I only craved one word of kindness from you. 
Had I received it, I would have gone away in silence and 
suffered in silence. But your course and what I have heard 
have made me reckless and despairing. You do not leave 
me even the poor consolation of self-sacrifice. You are 
my stony-hearted fate. I wish you had left me to drown. 
Tell your friend that I am more wretched than he ever can 
be, because I am a woman. Will he be satisfied?” 

“He ought to be,” was the low, husky reply. 

“ Are you proud of your triumph? ” 

“No, I am heartily ashamed of it ; but I have kept a 
pledge that will probably cost me far more than it has 
you.” 

“ A pledge ? ” 

“ Yes, my pledge to make you suffer as far as possible 
as he suffered.” 

She put her hand to her side as if she had received a 
wound, and after a moment said wearily and coldly, — 

“ Well, tell him that you succeeded, and be content ; ” 
and she turned to leave him. 

“ Stay,” he cried impetuously. “ It is now your turn. 
Take your revenge.” 

“My revenge?” she repeated in unfeigned astonishment. 

“ Yes, your revenge. I have loved you from the mo- 
ment I hoped you had a woman’s heart, yes, and before, — 
when I feared I might not be able to save your life. I 
know it now, though the very thought of it enraged me 


230 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


then. I have watched and waited more to be sure that you 
had a woman’s heart than for aught else, though a false 
sense of honor kept me true to my pledge. After I met 
you on the beach I determined at once to break my odious 
bond and place myself at your mercy. You may refuse me 
in view of my course — you probably will ; but every one 
in that house there shall know that you refused me, and 
your triumph shall be more complete than mine.” 

She looked into his face with an expression of amaze- 
ment and doubt ; but instead of coldness, there was now a 
devotion and pleading that she had never seen before. 

She was too confused and astounded, however, to com- 
prehend his words immediately, nor could the impression 
of his hostility pass away readily. 

/‘You are mocking me,” she faltered, scarcely knowing 
what she said. 

“ I cannot blame you that you think me capable of 
mocking the noble candor which has cost you so dear, as I 
can now understand. I cannot ask you to believe that I 
appreciate your heroic impulse of self-sacrifice, — your pur- 
pose to atone for wrong by inflicting irreparable wrong on 
yourself. It is natural that you should think of me only as 
an instrument of revenge with no more feeling than some 
keen-edged weapon would have. This also is the inevitable 
penalty of my course. When I speak of my love I cannot 
complain if you smile in bitter incredulity. But I have at 
least proved that I have a resolute will and that I keep my 
word ; and I again assure you that it shall be known this 
very night that you have refused me, that I offered you my 
hand, that you already had my heart, where your image is 
enshrined with that of my mother, and that I entreated you 
to be my wife. My cousin alone guessed my miserable 
triumph ; all shall know of yours.” 


AN UNEXPECTED RESULT. 


231 


As he spoke with impassioned earnestness, the confusion 
passed from her mind. She felt the truth of his words ; she 
knew that her ambitious dream had been fulfilled, and that 
she had achieved the, conquest of a man upon whom all 
others had smiled in vain. But how immeasurably different 
were her emotions from those which she had once antici- 
pated ! Not her beauty, not her consummate skill in fasci- 
nation had wrought this miracle, but her woman’s heart, 
awakened at last ; and it thrilled with such unspeakable joy 
that she turned away to hide its reflex in her face. He was 
misled by the act into believing that she could not forgive 
him, and yet was perplexed when she murmured with a 
return of her old piquant humor, — 

You are mistaken, Mr. Ackland ; it shall never be known 
that I refused you.” 

“How can you prevent it?” 

“ If your words are sincere, you will submit to such terms 
as I choose to make.” 

“ I am sincere, and my actions shall prove it ; but I shall 
permit no mistaken self-sacrifice on your part, nor any at- 
tempt to shield me from the punishment I well deserve.” 

She suddenly turned upon him a radiant face in which he 
read his happiness, and faltered, — 

“ Jack, I do believe you, although the change seems 
wrought by some heavenly magic. But it will take a long 
time to pay you up. I hope to be your dear torment for 
a lifetime.” 

He caught her in such a strong, impetuous embrace that 
she gasped, — 

“ I thought you were — cold to our sex.” 

“ It ’s not your sex that I am clasping, but you — you^ 
my Eve. Like the first man, I have won my bride under 
the green trees and beneath the open sky.” 


232 TAKEN A LIFE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


“Yes, Jack ; and I give you my whole heart as truly as 
did the first woman when there was but one man in all the 
world. That is my revenge'^ 

This is what Will Munson wrote some weeks later, — 

“Well, Jack, I Ve had the yellow fever, and it was the most 
fortunate event of my life. I was staying with a charming 
family, and they would not permit my removal to a hospital. 
One of my bravest and most devoted nurses has consented to 
become my wife. I hope you punished that little wretch Eva 
Van Tyne as she deserved.” 

“ Confound your fickle soul ! ” muttered Ackland. “ I 
punished her as she did not deserve ; and I risked more 
than life in doing so. If her heart had not been as good 
as gold and as kind as Heaven she never would have looked 
at me again.” 

Ackland is quite as indifferent to the sex as ever, but Eva 
•has never complained that he was cold to her. 


A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT. 


'^HE Christmas holidays had come, and with them a 
welcome vacation for Hedley Marstern. Although as 
yet a briefless young lawyer, he had a case in hand which 
absorbed many of his thoughts, — the conflicting claims of 
two young women in his native village on the Hudson, It 
must not be imagined that the young women were pressing 
their claims except as they did so unconsciously, by virtue 
of their sex and various charms. Nevertheless, Marstern 
was not the first lawyer who had clients over whom mid- 
night oil was burned, they remaining unaware of the fact. 

If not yet a constitutional attorney, he was at least con- 
stitutionally one. Falling helplessly in love with one girl 
simplifies matters. There are no distracting pros and cons, 
— nothing required but a concentration of faculties to win 
the enslaver, and so achieve mastery. Marstern did not ap- 
pear amenable to the subtle influences which blind the eyes 
and dethrone reason, inspiring in its place an overwhelm- 
ing impulse to capture a fortuitous girl because (to a heated 
imagination) she surpasses all her sex. Indeed, he was level- 
headed enough to believe that he would never capture any 
such girl ; but he hoped to secure one who promised to 
make as good a wife as he would try to be a husband, and 
with a fair amount of self-esteem, he was conscious of im- 
perfections. Therefore, instead of fancying that any of his 


234 taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

fair acquaintances were angels, he had deliberately and, as 
some may think, in a very cold-blooded fashion, endeavored 
to discover what they actually were. He had observed 
that a good deal of prose followed the poetry of wooing 
and the lunacy of the honeymoon ; and he thought it 
might be well to criticise a little before marriage as well as 
after it. 

There were a number of charming girls in the social 
circle of his native town ; and he had, during later years, 
made himself quite impartially agreeable to them. Indeed, 
without much effort on his part he had become what is 
known as a general favorite. He had been too diligent a 
student to become a society man, but was ready enough in 
vacation periods to make the most of every country frolic, 
and even on great occasions to rush up from the city and 
return at some unearthly hour in the morning when his 
partners in the dance were not half through their dreams. 
While on these occasions he had shared in the prevailing 
hilarity, he nevertheless had the presentiment that some one 
of the laughing, light-footed girls would one day pour his 
coffee and send him to his office in either a good or a bad 
mood to grapple with the problems awaiting him there. 
He had in a measure decided that when he married it 
should be to a girl whom he had played with in childhood 
and whom he knew a good deal about, and not to a chance 
acquaintance of the world at large. So, beneath all his di- 
versified gallantries he had maintained a quiet little policy 
of observation, until his thoughts had gradually gathered 
around two of his young associates who, unconsciously to 
themselves, as we have said, put in stronger and stronger 
claims every time he saw them. They asserted these claims 
in the only way in which he would have recognized them, — 
by being more charming, agreeable, and, as he fancied. 


A CHRISTiMAS-EVE SUIT, 


235 

by being better than the others. He had not made them 
aware, even by manner, of the distinction accorded to them ; 
and as yet he was merely a friend. 

But the time had come, he believed, for definite action. 
While he weighed and considered, some prompter fellows 
might take the case out of his hands entirely; therefore 
he welcomed this vacation and the opportunities it afforded. 

The festivities began with what is termed in the country 
a “large party;” and Carrie Mitchell and Lottie Waldo 
were both there, resplendent in new gowns made for the 
occasion. Marstern thought them both charming. They 
danced equally well and talked nonsense with much the 
same ease and vivacity. He could not decide which was 
the prettier, nor did the eyes and attentions of others afford 
him any aid. They were general favorites, as well as him- 
self, although it was evident that to some they might be- 
come more, should they give encouragement. But they 
were apparently in the heyday of their girlhood, and thus 
far had preferred miscellaneous admiration to individual 
devotion. By the time the evening was over Marstern felt 
that if life consisted of large parties he might as well settle 
the question by the toss of a copper. 

It must not be supposed that he was such a conceited 
prig as to imagine that such a fortuitous proceeding, or his 
best efforts afterward, could settle the question as it related 
to the girls. It would only decide his own procedure. He 
was like an old marauding baron, in honest doubt from 
which town he can carry off the richest booty, — that is, in 
case he can capture any one of them. His overtures for 
capitulation might be met with the “ slings and arrows of 
outrageous fortune ” and he be sent limping off the field. 
Nevertheless, no man regrets that he must take the initia- 
tive, and he would be less than a man who would fear to do 


236 TAKEN- ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

SO. When it came to this point in the affair, Marstem 
shrugged his shoulders and thought, I must take my 
chances like the rest.” But he wished to be sure that he 
had attained this point, and not lay siege to one girl only 
to wish afterward it had been the other. 

His course that evening proved that he not only had a 
legal cast of mind but also a judicial one. He invited both 
Miss Mitchell' and Miss Waldo to take a sleigh- ride with 
him the following evening, fancying that when sandwiched 
between them in the cutter he could impartially note his 
impressions. His unsuspecting clients laughingly accepted, 
utterly unaware of the momentous character of the trial 
scene before them. 

As Marstern smoked a cigar before retiring that night, he 
admitted to himself that it was rather a remarkable court 
that was about to be held. He was the only advocate 
for the claims of each, and finally he proposed to take 
a seat on the bench and judge between them. Indeed, 
before he slept he decided to take that august position at 
once, and maintain a judicial impartiality while noting his 
impressions. 

Christmas Eve happened to be a cold, clear, star-lit night ; 
and when Marstern drove to Miss Waldo’s door, he asked 
himself, “Could a fellow ask for anything daintier and 
finer ” than the red-lipped, dark-eyed girl revealed by the 
hall-lamp as she tripped lightly out, her anxious mamma 
following her with words of unheeded caution about not 
taking cold, and coming home early. He had not traversed 
the mile which intervened between the residences of the 
two girls before he almost wished he could continue the 
drive under the present auspices, and that, as in the old times, 
he could take toll at every bridge, and encircle his com- 
panion with his arm as they bounced over the “ thank- ’ee 


A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT. 


237 


mams.” The frosty air appeared to give keenness and 
piquancy to Miss Lottie’s wit, and the chime of the bells 
was not merrier or more musical than her voice. But when 
a little later he saw blue-eyed Carrie Mitchell in her furs 
and hood silhouetted in the window, his old dilemma became 
as perplexing as ever. Nevertheless, it was the most de- 
lightful uncertainty that he had ever experienced ; and he 
had a presentiment that he had better make the most of it, 
since it could not last much longer. Meanwhile, he was 
hedged about with blessings clearly not in disguise, and he 
gave utterance to this truth as they drove away. 

“ Surely there never was so lucky a fellow. Here I am 
kept warm and happy by the two finest girls in town.” 

“ Yes,” said Lottie ; “ and it ’s a shame you can’t sit on 
both sides of us.” 

“ I assure you I wish it were possible. It would double 
my pleasure.” 

I ’m very well content,” remarked Carrie, quietly, “ as 
long as I can keep on the right side of people — ” 

“Well, you are not on the right side to-night,” inter- 
rupted Lottie. 

“ Good gracious ! ” thought Marstern, “ she ’s next to my 
heart. I wonder if that will give her unfair advantage;” 
but Carrie explained, — 

“ Of course I was speaking metaphorically.” 

“ In that aspect of the case it would be a shame to me 
if any side I have is not right toward those who have so 
honored me,” he hastened to say. 

“ Oh, Carrie has all the advantage, — she is next to your 
heart.” 

“Would you like to exchange places? ’’was the query 
flashed back by Carrie. 

Oh, no, I’m quite as content as you are,” 


238 TAKEN ALIl^E: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ Why, then, since I am more than content, — exultant, 
indeed, — it appears that vve all start from excellent prem- 
ises to reach a happy conclusion of our Christmas Eve,” 
cried Marstern. 

Now you are talking shop, Mr. Lawyer, — Premises and 
Conclusions, indeed ! ” said Lottie ; “ since you are such a 
happy sandwich, you must be a tongue sandwich, and be 
very entertaining.” 

He did his best, the two girls seconding his efforts so 
genially that he found himself, after driving five miles, psy- 
chologically just where he was physically, — between them, 
as near to one in ,his thoughts and preferences as to the 
other. 

“ Let us take the river road home,” suggested Lottie. 

‘‘As long as you agree,” he answered, “ you both are sov- 
ereign potentates. If you should express conflicting wishes, 
I should have to stop here in the road till one abdicated in 
favor of the other, or we all froze.” 

“ But you, sitting so snugly between us, would not freeze,” 
said Lottie. “ If we were obstinate we should have to assume 
our pleasantest expressions and then you could eventually 
take us home as bits of sculpture. In fact, I ’m getting 
cold already.” 

“ Are you also. Miss Carrie? ” 

“ Oh, I ’ll thaw out before summer. Don’t mind me.” 

“ Well, then, mind me,” resumed Lottie. “ See how 
white and smooth the river looks. Why can’t we drive 
home on the ice ? It will save miles, — I mean it looks 
so inviting.” 

“ Oh, dear ! ” cried Carrie, “ I feel like protesting now. 
The longest way round may be both the shortest and safest 
way home.” 

“You ladies shall decide. This morning I drove over 


A CHRIS TMAS-EVE SUIT. 239 

the route we would tak^«^5llight, and I should not fear to 
take a ton of coal over it.” 

“ A comparison suggesting warmth and a g’rate-fire. I 
vote for the river,” said Lottie, promptly. 

“ Oh, well, Mr. Marstern, if you Ve been over the ice so 
recently — I only wish to feel reasonably safe.” 

‘‘ I declare ! ” thought Marstern, Lottie is the braver 
and more brilliant girl ; and the fact that she is not inclined 
to forego the comfort of the home-fire for the pleasure 
of my company, reveals the difficulty of, and therefore in- 
centive to, the suit I may decide to enter upon before New 
Year’s.” 

Meanwhile, his heart on Carrie’s side began to grow 
warm and alert, as if recognizing an affinity to some object 
not far off. Granting that she had not been so brilliant as 
Lottie, she had been eminently companionable in a more 
quiet way. If there had not been such bursts of enthusi- 
asm at the beginning of the drive, her enjoyment appeared 
to have more staying powers. He liked her none the less 
that her eyes were often turned toward the stars or the 
dark silhouettes of the leafless trees against the snow. She 
did not keep saying, “ Ah, how lovely ! What a fine bit 
that is ! ” but he had only to follow her eyes to see some- 
thing worth looking at. 

“ A proof th^t Miss Carrie also is not so preoccupied 
with the pleasure of my company that she has no thoughts 
for other things,” cogitated Marstern. It ’s rather in her 
favor that she prefers Nature to a grate-fire. They ’re 
about even yet.” 

Meanwhile the horse was speeding along on the white, 
hard expanse of the river, skirting the west shore. They 
now had only about a mile to drive before striking land 
again ; and the scene was so beautiful with the great dim 


240 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


outlines of the mountains before them that both the girls 
suggested that they should go leisurely for a time. 

We should n’t hastily and carelessly pass such a picture 
as that, any more than one would if a fine copy of it were 
hung in a gallery,” said Carrie. “The stars- are so brilliant 
along the brow of that highland yonder that they form a 
dia — oh, oh ! what is the matter? ” and she clung to Mar- 
stern’s arm. 

The horse was breaking through the ice. 

“Whoa!” said Marstern, firmly. Even as he spoke, 
Lottie was out of the sleigh and running back on the ice, 
crying and wringing her hands. 

“ We shall be drowned,” she almost screamed hysterically. 

“ Mr. Marstern, what shall we do ? Can’t we turn around 
and go back the way we came?” 

“ Miss Carrie, will you do what I ask? Will you believe 
me when I say that I do not think you are in any danger? ” 

“ Yes, I ’ll do my best,” she replied, catching her breath. 
She grew calm rapidly as he tried to reassure Lottie, telling 
her that water from the rising of the tide had overflowed 
the main ice and that thin ice had formed over it, also that 
the river at the most was only two or three feet deep at 
that point. But all was of no avail ; Lottie stood out upon 
the ice in a panic, declaring that he never should have 
brought them into such danger and that he must turn 
around at once -and go back as they came. 

“ But, Miss Waldo, the tide is rising, and we may find wet 
places returning. Besides, it would bring us home very late. 
Now, Miss Carrie and I will drive slowly across this place 
and then return for you. After we have been across it 
twice you surely won’t fear.” 

“ I won’t be left alone ; suppose you two should break 
through and disappear, what would become of me ? ” 


A CHRIS TMAS-EVE SUIT. 


241 


You would be better off than we,” he replied, laughing. 

I think it ’s horrid of you to laugh. Oh, I ’m so cold 
and frightened ! I feel as if the ice were giving way under 
my feet.” 

“ Why, Miss Lottie, we just drove over that spot where 
you stand. Here, Miss Carrie shall stay with you while I 
drive back and forth alone.” 

‘‘ Then if you were drowned we 'd both be left alone to 
freeze to death.” 

‘‘ I pledge you my word you shall be by that grate-fire 
within less than an hour if you will trust me five minutes.” 

“ Oh, well, if you will risk your life and ours too ; but 
Carrie must stay with me.” 

“ Will you trust me. Miss Carrie, and help me out of this 
scrape? ” 

Carrie was recovering from her panic, and replied, ‘‘ I 
have given you my promise.” 

He was out of the sleigh instantly, and the thin ice broke 
with him also. ‘‘ I must carry you a short distance,” he said. 
“ I cannot allow you to get your feet wet. Put one arm 
around my neck, so ; now please obey as you promised.” 

She did so without a word, and he bore her beyond the 
water, inwardly exulting and blessing that thin ice. His 
decision was coming with the passing seconds; indeed, it 
had come. Returning to the sleigh he drove slowly for- 
ward, his horse making a terrible crunching and splashing, 
Lottie meanwhile keeping up a staccato accompaniment of 
little shrieks. 

“ Ah, my charming creature,” he thought, ** with you it was 
only, ‘ What will become of me ^ ' I might not have found 
out until it was too late the relative importance of ‘ me ’ 
in the universe had we not struck this bad crossing ; and 
one comes to plenty of bad places to cross in a lifetime.” 

16 


242 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

The area of thin ice was not very narrow, and he was 
becoming but a dim and shadowy outline to the girls. Lot- 
tie was now screaming for his return. Having crossed the 
overflowed space and absolutely assured himself that there 
was no danger, he returned more rapidly and found Carrie 
trying to calm her companion. 

Oh,” sobbed Lottie, “ my feet are wet and almost 
frozen. The ice underneath may have borne you, but it 
won’t bear all three of us. Oh, dear, I wish I had n’t — I 
wish I was home ; and I feel as if I ’d never get there.” 

“ Miss Lottie, I assure you that the ice will hold a ton, 
but I ’ll tell you what I ’ll do. I shall put you in the sleigh, 
and Miss Carrie will drive you over. You two together do 
not weigh much more than I do. I ’ll walk just behind you 
with my hands on the back of the sleigh, and if I see the 
slightest danger I ’ll lift you out of the sleigh first and carry 
you to safety.” 

This proposition promised so well that she hesitated, and 
he lifted her in instantly before she could change her mind, 
then helped Carrie in with a quiet pressure of the hand, as 
much as to say, “ I shall depend on you.” 

“ But, Mr. Marstern, you ’ll get your feet wet,” protested 
Carrie. 

“ That does n’t matter,” he replied good-naturedly. I 
shall be no worse off than Miss Lottie, and I ’m deter- 
mined to convince her of safety. Now go straight ahead 
as I direct.” 

Once the horse stumbled, and Lottie thought he was 
going down headfirst. , Oh, lift me out, quick, quick ! ” 
she cried. 

*‘Yes, indeed I will. Miss Lottie, as soon as we are oppo- 
site that grate-fire of yours.” 

They were soon safely over and within a half-hour reached 


A CHRIS TMAS-EVE SUIT. 


243 


Lottie’s home. It was evident she was a little ashamed of 
her behavior, and she made some effort to retrieve herself. 
But she was cold and miserable, vexed with herself and still 
more vexed with Marstern. That a latent sense of justice 
forbade the latter feeling only irritated her the more. In- 
dividuals as well as communities must have scapegoats; 
and it is not an unusual impulse on the part of some to 
blame and dislike those before whom they have humiliated 
themselves. 

She gave her companions a rather formal invitation to 
come in and get warm before proceeding farther; but 
Marstern said very politely that he thought it was too 
late, unless Miss Carrie was cold. Carrie protested that 
she was not so cold but that she could easily wait till she 
reached her own fireside. 

^‘Well, good-night, then,” and the door was shut a trifle 
emphatically. 

Mr. Marstern,” said Carrie, sympathetically, “ your feet 
must be very cold and wet after splashing through all that 
ice-water.” 

^‘They are,” he replied; “ but I don’t mind it. Well, if 
I had tried for years I could not have found such a test of 
character as we had to-night.” 

What do you mean? ” 

‘‘ Oh, well, you two girls did not behave exactly alike. 
I liked the way you behaved. You helped me out of a 
confounded scrape.” 

Would you have tried for years to find a test?” she 

asked, concealing the keenness of her query under a 

% 

laugh. 

I should have been well rewarded if I had, by such a 
fine contrast,” he replied. 

Carrie’s faculties had not so congealed but that his words 


244 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

set her thinking. She had entertained at times the impres- 
sion that she and Lottie were his favorites. Had he taken 
them out that night together in the hope of contrasts, of 
finding tests that would help his halting decision ? He had 
ventured where the intuitions of a girl like Carrie Mitchell 
were almost equal to second-sight ; and she was alert for what 
would come next. 

He accepted her invitation to come in and warm his 
feet at the glowing fire in the grate, which Carrie’s father 
had made before retiring. Mrs. Mitchell, feeling that her 
daughter was with an old friend and playmate, did not 
think the presence of a chaperone essential, and left the 
young people alone. Carrie bustled about, brought cake, 
and made hot lemonade, while Marstem stretched his feet 
to the grate with a luxurious sense of comfort and com- 
placency, thinking how homelike it all was and how para- 
disiacal life would become if such a charming little Hebe 
presided over his home. His lemonade became nectar 
offered by such hands. 

She saw the different expression in his eyes. It was now 
homage, decided preference for one and not mere gallantry 
to two. Outwardly she was demurely oblivious and main- 
tained simply her wonted friendliness. Marstern, however, 
was thawing in more senses than one, and he was possessed 
by a strong impulse to begin an open siege at once. 

“ I have n’t had a single suit of any kind yet, Carrie,” he 
said, dropping the prefix of “ Miss,” which had gradually 
been adopted as they had grown up. 

Oh, well, that was the position of all the great lawyers 
once,” she replied, laughing. Marstern’s father was wealthy, 
and all knew that he could afford to be briefless for a 
time. 

I may never be great ; but I shall work as hard as any 


A CH/^ISTMAS-EVE SUIT. 


245 


of them,” he continued. “To tell you the honest truth, 
however, this would be the happiest Christmas Eve of my 
life if I had a downright suit on my hands. Why can’t I 
be frank with you and say I ’d like to begin the chief suit 
of my life now and here, — a suit for this little hand ? I’d 
plead for it as no lawyer ever pleaded before. I settled 
that much down on the ice.” 

“ And if I had n’t happened to behave on the ice in a 
manner agreeable to your lordship, you would have pleaded 
with the other girl ? ” she remarked, withdrawing her hand 
and looking him directly in the eyes. 

“What makes you think so?” he asked somewhat 
confusedly. 

“You do.” 

He sprang up and paced the room a few moments, then 
confronted her with the words, “ You shall have the whole 
truth. Any woman that I would ask to be my wife is en- 
titled to that,” and he told her just what the attitude of his 
mind had been from the first. 

She laughed outright, then gave him her hand as she 
said, “Your honesty insures that we can be very good 
friends ; but I don’t wish to hear anything more about 
suits which are close of kin to lawsuits.” 

He looked very dejected, feeling that he had blundered 
fatally in his precipitation. 

“ Come now, Hedley, be sensible,” she resumed, half 
laughing, half serious. “ As you say, we can be frank with 
each other. Why, only the other day we were boy and 
girl together coasting down hill on the same sled. You are 
applying your legal jargon to a deep experience, to some- 
thing sacred, — the result, to my mind, of a divine instinct. 
Neither you nor I have ever felt for each other this instinc- 
tive preference, this subtle gravitation of the heart. Don’t 


246 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

you see? Your head has been concerned about me, and 
only your head. By a kindred process you would select 
one bale of merchandise in preference to another. Good 
gracious ! I Ve faults enough. You ’ll meet some other girl 
that will stand some other test far better than I. I want 
a little of what you call silly romance in my courtship. 
See ; I can talk about this suit as coolly and fluently as you 
can. We ’d make a nice pair of lovers, about as frigid as 
the ice-water you waded through so good-naturedly ; ” and 
the girl’s laugh rang out merrily, awakening echoes in the 
old house. Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell might rest tecurely when 
their daughter could laugh like that. It was the mirth of a 
genuine American girl whose self-protection was better than 
the care of a thousand duennas. 

He looked at her with honest admiration in his eyes, 
then rose quietly and said, “ That ’s fine, Carrie. Your 
head ’s worth two of mine, and you ’d make the better 
lawyer. You see through a case from top to bottom. You 
were right, — I was n’t in love with you ; I don’t know 
whether I ’m in love with you now, and you have n’t an 
infinitesimal spark for me. Nevertheless, I begin my suit 
here and now, and I shall never withdraw it till you are 
engaged to another fellow. So there ! ” 

Carrie looked rather blank at this result of her reductio 
ad absurdum process ; and he did not help her by adding, 
“ A fellow is n’t always in love. There must be a begin- 
ning ; and when I arrive at this beginning under the guid- 
ance of reason, judgment, and observation, I don’t see as 
I’m any more absurd than the fellow who tumbles help- 
lessly in love, he does n't know why. What becomes of all 
these people who have divine gravitations? You and I 
both know of some who had satanic repulsions afterward. 
They used their eyes and critical faculties after marriage 


A CHAVS TAfAS~£F£ SUIT. 


247 


instead of before. The romance exhaled like a morning 
mist; and the facts came out distinctly. They learned 
what kind of man and woman they actually were, and two 
idealized creatures were sent to' limbo. Because I don’t 
blunder upon the woman I wish to marry, but pick her 
out, that ’s no reason I can’t and won’t love her. Your 
analysis and judgment were correct only up to date. 
You have now to meet a suit honestly, openly announced. 
This may be bad policy on my part ; yet I have so much 
faith in you and respect for you that I don’t believe you 
will let my precipitation create a prejudice. Give me a 
fair hearing; that’s all I ask.” 

“ Well, well, I ’ll promise not to frown, even though some 
finer paragon should throw me completely in the shade.” 

“You don’t believe in me yet,” he resumed, after a 
moment of thought. “ I felt that I had blundered awfully 
a while ago; but I doubt it. A girl of your perceptions 
would soon have seen it all. I ’ve not lost anything 
by being frank from the start. Be just to me, however. 
It wasn’t policy that led me to speak, but this home- 
like scene, and you appearing like the good genius of a 
home.” 

He pulled out his watch, and gave a low whistle as he 
held it toward her. Then his manner suddenly became 
grave and gentle. “ Carrie,” he said, “ I wish you, not a 
merry Christmas, but a happy one, and many of them. It 
seems to me it would be a great privilege for a man to 
make a woman like you happy.” 

“Is this the beginning of the suit?” she asked with a 
laugh that was a little forced. 

“ I don’t know. Perhaps it is ; but I spoke just as I felt. 
Good-night.” 

She would not admit of a trace of sentiment on her part. 


248 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES, 

Good-night,” she said. “ Merry Christmas ! Go home 
and hang up your stocking.” 

Bless me ! ” she thought, as she went slowly up the 
stairs, “ I thought I was going to be through with him for 
good and all, except as a friend; but if he goes on this 
way — ” 

The next morning a basket of superb roses was left at 
her home. There was no card, and mamma queried and 
surmised ; but the girl knew. They were not displeasing 
to her, and somehow, before the day was over they found 
their way to her room ; but she shook her head decidedly 
as she said, “ He must be careful not to send me other 
gifts, for I will return them instantly. Flowers, in mod- 
eration, never commit a girl.” 

But then came another gift, — a book with pencillings 
here and there, not against sentimental passages, but 
words that made her think. It was his manner in society, 
however, that at once annoyed, perplexed, and pleased her. 
On the first occasion they met in company with others, he 
made it clear to every one that he was her suitor ; yet he 
was not a buir which she could not shake off. He rather 
seconded all her efforts to have a good time with any and 
every one she chose. Nor did he, wallflower fashion, mope 
in the mean while and look unutterable things. He added 
to the pleasure of a score of others, and even conciliated 
Lottie, yet at the same time surrounded the girl of his 
choice with an atmosphere of unobtrusive devotion. She 
was congratulated on her conquest — rather maliciously so 
by Lottie. Her air of courteous indifference was well 
maintained ; yet she was a woman, and could not help be- 
ing flattered. Certain generous traits in her nature were 
touched also by an homage which yielded everything and 
exacted nothing. 


A CHJ^ISTMAS-EVE SUIT. 249 

The holidays soon passed, and he returned to his work. 
She learned incidentally that he toiled faithfully, instead of 
mooning around. At every coigne of vantage she found 
him, or some token of his ceaseless effort. She was com- 
pelled to think of him, and to think well of him. Though 
mamma and papa judiciously said little, it was evident that 
they liked the style of lover into which he was developing. 

Once during the summer she said, ‘‘ I don’t think it ’s 
right to let you go on in this way any longer.” 

“Are my attentions so very annoying? ” 

“ No, indeed. A girl never had a more agreeable or 
useful friend.” 

“ Are you engaged to some other fellow? ” 

“ Of course not. You know better.” 

“ There is no •' of course not ’ about it. I could n’t and 
would n’t lay a straw in the way. You are not bound, 
but I.” 

“ You bound ? ” 

“ Certainly. You remember what I said.” 

“Then I must accept the first man that asks me — ” 

“ I ask you.” 

“ No ; some one else, so as to unloose your conscience 
and give you a happy deliverance.” 

“ You would leave me still bound and hopeless in that 
case. I love you now, Carrie Mitchell.” 

“ Oh, dear ! you are incorrigible. It ’s just a lawyer’s 
persistence in winning a suit.” 

“You can still swear on the dictionary that you don’t 
love me at all?” 

“ I might — on the dictionary. There, I won’t talk 
about such things any more,” and she resolutely changed 
the subject. 

But she couldn’t swear, even on the dictionary. She 


250 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

did n’t know where she stood or how it would all end ; 
but with increasing frequency the words, “ I love you 
now,” haunted her waking and dreaming hours. 

The holidays were near again, and then came a letter 
from Marstern, asking her to take another sleigh-ride with 
him on Christmas Eve. His concluding words were, 
“There is no other woman in the world that I want on 
the other side of me.” She kissed these words, then 
looked around in a startled, shamefaced manner, blush- 
ing even in the solitude of her room. 

Christmas Eve came, but with it a wild korm of wind 
and sleet. She was surprised at the depth of her disap- 
pointment. Would he even come to call through such a 
tempest? 

He did come, and come early ; and she said demurely, 
“ I did not expect you on such a night as this.” 

He looked at her for a moment, half humorously, half 
seriously, and her eyes drooped before his. “ You will know 
better what to expect next time,” was his comment. 

“ When is next time ? ” 

“ Any and every time which gives me a chance to see 
you. Who should know that better than you?” 

“Are you never going to give up?” she asked with 
averted face. 

“ Not till you become engaged.” 

Hush ! They are all in the parlor.” 

“ Well, they ought to know as much, by this time, also.” 

She thought it was astonishing how he made himself at 
home in the family circle. In half an hour there was 
scarcely any restraint left because a visitor was present. Yet, 
as if impelled by some mysterious influence, one after an- 
other slipped out ; and Carrie saw with strange little thrills 
of dismay that she would soon be alone with that indomi- 


A CHRIS TMAS-EVE SUIT. 


251 

table lawyer. She signalled to her mother, but the old lady’s 
eyes were glued to her knitting. 

At last they were alone, and she expected a prompt and 
powerful appeal from the plaintiff ; but Marstern drew his 
chair to the opposite side of the hearth and chatted so 
easily, naturally, and kindly that her trepidation passed 
utterly. It began to grow late, and a heavier gust than usual 
shook the house. It appeared to waken him to the dire ne- 
cessity of breasting the gale, and he rose and said, — 

I feel as if I could sit here forever, Carrie. It ’s just 
the impression I had a year ago to-night. You, sitting 
there by the fire,' gave then, and give now to this place the 
irresistible charm of home. I think I had then the de- 
cided beginning of the divine gravitation, — was n’t that 
what you called it? — which has be’en growing so strong 
ever since. You thought then that the ice-water I waded 
was in my veins. Do you think so now? If you do I 
shall have to take another year to prove the contrary. 
Neither am I convinced of the absurdity of my course, 
as you put it then. I studied you coolly and deliberately 
before I began to love you, and reason and judgment have 
had no chance to jeer at my love.” 

But, Hedley,” she began with a slight tremor in her 
tones, “ you are idealizing me as certainly as the blindest. 
I ’ve plenty of faults.” 

I have n’t denied that ; so have I plenty of faults. 
What right have I to demand a perfection I can’t offer? I 
have known people to marry who imagined each other per- 
fect, and then come to court for a separation on the ground 
of incompatibility of temperament. They learned the 
meaning of that long word too late, and were scarcely longer 
about it than the word itself. Now, I ’m satisfied that I 
could cordially agree with you on some points and lovingly 


252 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

disagree with you on others. Chief of all it ’s your instinct 
to make a home. You appear better at your own fireside 
than when in full dress at a reception. You — ” 

See here, Hedley, you Ve got to give up this suit at 
last. I ’m engaged,” and she looked away as if she could 
not meet his eyes. 

Engaged?” he said slowly, looking at her with startled 
eyes. 

“ Well,^about the same as engaged. My heart has cer- 
tainly gone from me beyond recall.” 

He drew a long breath. “ I was foolish enough to be- 
gin to hope,” he faltered. 

You must dismiss hope to-night, then,” she said, her 
face still averted. 

He was silent and ‘she slowly turned toward him. He 
had sunk into a chair and buried his face in his hands, 
the picture of dejected defeat. 

There was a sudden flash of mirth through tear-gemmed 
eyes, a glance at the clock, then noiseless steps, and she was 
on her knees beside him, her arm about his neck, her blush- 
ing face near his wondering eyes as she breathed, — 

Happy Christmas, Hedley ! How do you like your first 
gift; and what room is there now for hope?” 


THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 


T T was the day before Thanksgiving. The brief cloudy 
November afternoon was fast merging into early twi- 
light. The trees, now gaunt and bare, creaked and groaned 
in the passing gale, clashing their icy branches together with 
sounds sadly unlike the slumberous rustle of their foliage in 
June. And that same foliage was now flying before the wind, 
swept hither and thither, like exiles driven by disaster from 
the moorings of home, at times finding a brief abiding- 
place, and then carried forward to parts unknown by cir- 
cumstances beyond control. The street leading into the 
village was almost deserted ; and the few who came and went 
hastened on with fluttering garments, head bent down, and a 
shivering sense of discomfort. The fields were bare and 
brown ; and the landscape on the uplands rising in the dis- 
tance would have been utterly sombre had not green fields 
of grain, like childlike faith in wintry age, relieved the 
gloomy outlook and prophesied of the sunshine and golden 
harvest of a new year and life. 

But bleak November found no admittance in Mrs. Alford’s 
cosey parlor. Though, as usual, it was kept as the room for 
state occasions, it was not a stately room. It was furnished 
with elegance and good taste ; but what was better, the 
genial home atmosphere from the rest of the house had in- 
vaded it, and one did not feel, on entering it from the free- 


254 TAKEN ALIFE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


and-easy sitting-room, as if passing from a sunny climate to 
the icebergs of the Pole. Therefore I am sure my reader 
will follow me gladly out of the biting, boisterous wand into 
the homelike apartment ; and as we stand in fancy before 
the glowing grate, we will make the acquaintance of the 
May-day creature who is its sole occupant. 

Elsie Alford, just turning seventeen, appeared younger than 
her years warranted. Some girls carry the child far into 
their teens, and blend the mirthful innocence of infancy with 
the richer, fuller life of budding womanhood. This was true 
of Elsie. Hers was not the forced exotic bloom of fashion- 
able life ; but rather one of the native blossoms of her New- 
England home, having all the delicacy and at the same time 
hardiness of the windflower. She was also as shy and 
easily agitated, and yet, like the flower she resembled, well 
rooted among the rocks of principle and truth. She was the 
youngest and the pet of the household, and yet the “ pet- 
ting ” was not of that kind that develops selfishness and wil- 
fulness, but rather, a genial sunlight of love falling upon 
her as a focus from the entire family. They always spoke 
of her as “ little Sis,” or the “ child.” And a child it 
seemed she would ever be, with her kittenish ways, quick 
impulses, and swiftly-alternating moods. As she developed 
into womanly proportions, her grave, business-like father 
began to have misgivings. After one of her wild sallies at 
the table, where she kept every one on the qui vive by her 
unrestrained chatter, Mr. Alford said, — 

Elsie, will you ever learn to be a woman? ” 

Looking mischievously at him through her curls, she 
replied, “ Yes ; I might if I became as ■ old as Mrs. 
Methuselah.” 

They finally concluded to leave Elsie’s cure to care and 
trouble, — two certain elements of earthly life ; and yet her 



The moment Elsie was free she darted back to the Window. 


Taken Alive 


Page 255 






THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 


255 

experience of either would be slight indeed, could their 
love shield her. 

But it would not be exactly care or trouble that would 
sober Elsie into a thoughtful Voman, as our story will 
show. 

Some of the November wind seemed in her curling hair 
upon this fateful day ; but her fresh young April face was a 
pleasant contrast to the scene presented from the window, 
to which she kept flitting with increasing frequency. It cer- 
tainly was not the dismal and darkening landscape that so 
intensely interested her. The light of a great and coming 
pleasure was in her face, and her manner was one of restless, 
eager expectancy. Little wonder. Her pet brother, the 
one next older than herself, a promising young theologue, 
was coming home to spend Thanksgiving. It was time he 
appeared. The shriek of the locomotive had announced 
the arrival of the train; and her ardent little spirit could 
scarcely endure the moments intervening before she would 
almost concentrate herself into a rapturous kiss and embrace 
of welcome, for the favorite brother had been absent several 
long months. 

Her mother called her away for a few moments, for the 
good old lady was busy indeed, knowing well that merely 
full hearts would not answer for a New- England Thanks- 
giving. But the moment Elsie was free she darted back to 
the window, just in time to catch a glimpse, as she supposed, 
of her brother’s well-remembered dark-gray overcoat, as he 
wa.s ascending the front steps. 

A tall, grave-looking young man, an utter stranger to the 
place and family, had his hand upon the doorbell ; but 
before he could ring it, the door flew open, and a lovely 
young creature precipitated herself on his neck, like a 
missile fired from heavenly battlements, and a kiss was 


256 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

pressed upon his lips that he afterward admitted to have felt 
even to the toes of his boots.” 

But his startled manner caused her to lift her face from 
under his side-whiskers ; and though the dusk was deepen- 
ing, she could see that her arms were around an utter 
stranger. She recoiled from him with a bound, and trem- 
bling like a windflower indeed, her large blue eyes dilating at 
the intruder with a dismay beyond words. How the awk- 
ward scene would have ended it were hard to tell had not 
the hearty voice of one coming up the path called out, — 

“ Hi, there, you witch ! who is that you are kissing, and 
then standing off to see the effect? ” 

There was no mistake this time ; so, impelled by love, 
shame, and fear of “ that horrid man,” she fled, half sob- 
bing, to his arms. 

*^No, he isn’t a ‘horrid man,’ either,” whispered her 
brother, laughing. “ He is a classmate of mine. Why, 
Stanhope, how are you? I did not know that you and my 
sister were so well acquainted,” he added, half banteringly 
and half curiously, for as yet he did not fully understand the 
scene. 

The hall-lamp, shining through the open door, had re- 
vealed the features of the young man (whom we must now 
call Mr. Stanhope), so that his classmate had recognized 
him. His first impulse had been to slip away in the dark- 
ness, and so escape from his awkward predicament ; but 
George Alford’s prompt address prevented this and brought 
him to bay. He was painfully embarrassed, but managed 
to stammer, — 

“ I was taken for you, I think. I never had the pleasure 
— honor of meeting your sister.” 

“ Oh, ho ! I see now. My wild little sister kissed before 
ghe looked. Well, that was your good fortune, I could 


THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 


257 

keep two Thanksgiving days on the strength of such a kiss 
as that,” cried the light-hearted student, shaking the diffi- 
dent, shrinking Mr. Stanhope warmly by the hand. You 
will hardly need a formal introduction now. But, bless me, 
where is she? Has the November wind blown her away? ” 

“ I think your sist— the lady passed around to the side 
entrance. I fear I have annoyed her sadly.” 

Nonsense ! A good joke, — something to tease the lit- 
tle witch about. But come in. I ’m forgetting the sacred 
rites.” 

And before the bewildered Mr. Stanhope could help him- 
self, he was half dragged into the lighted hall, and the door 
shut between him and escape. 

In the mean time, Elsie, like a whirlwind, had burst into 
the kitchen, where Mrs. Alford was superintending some 
savory dishes. 

Oh, mother, George has come and has a horrid man 
with him, who nearly devoured me.” 

And, with this rather feminine mode of stating the case, 
she darted into the dusky, fire-lighted parlor, from whence, 
unseen, she could reconnoitre the hall. Mr. Stanhope was 
just saying, — 

Please let me go. I have stood between you and your 
welcome long enough. I shall only be an intruder; and 
besides, as an utter stranger, I have no right to stay.” To 
all of which Elsie devoutly whispered to herself, “ Amen.” 

But Mrs. Alford now appeared, and after a warm, moth- 
erly greeting to her son, turned in genial courtesy to wel- 
come his friend, as she supposed. 

George was so happy that he wished every one else to be 
the same. The comical episode attending Mr. Stanhope’s 
unexpected appearance just hit his frolicsome mood, and 
promised to be a source of endless merriment if he could 

17 


258 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

only keep his classmate over the coming holiday. More- 
over, he long had wished to become better acquainted with 
this young man, whose manner at the seminary had deeply 
interested him. So he said, — 

“ Mother, this is Mr. Stanhope, a classmate of mine. I 
wish you would help me persuade him to stay.” 

Why, certainly, I supposed you expected to stay with • 
us, of course,” said Mrs. Alford, heartily. 

Mr. Stanhope looked ready to sink through the floor, his 
face crimson with vexation. 

“ I do assure you, madam,” he urged, “ it is all a mis- 
take. I am not an invited guest. I was merely calling on 
a little matter of business, when — ” and there he stopped. 
George exploded into a hearty, uncontrollable laugh ; while 
Elsie, in the darkness, shook her little fist at the stranger, 
who hastened to add, Please let me bid you good-evening. 

I have not the slightest claim on your hospitality. ” 

“Where are you staying?” asked Mrs. Alford, a little 
mystified. “ We would like you to spend at least part of 
the time with us.” 

“ I do not expect to be here very long. I have a room 
at the hotel.” 

“ Now, look here. Stanhope,” cried George, barring all 
egress by planting his back against the door, “ do you take 
me, a half-fledged theologue, for a heathen? Do you sup- 
pose that I could be such a churl as to let a classmate stay 
at our dingy, forlorn little tavern and eat hash on Thanks- 
giving Day? I could never look you in the face at recita- 
tion again. Have some consideration for my peace of 
mind, and I am sure you will find our home quite as endur- 
able as anything Mr. Starks can provide.” 

“ Oh ! as to that, from even the slight glimpse that I 
have had, this seems more like a home than anything I have 


THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 


259 

known for many years ; but I cannot feel it right that I, an 
unexpected stranger — ” 

‘‘ Come, come ! No more of that ! You know what is 
written about ^ entertaining strangers ; ’ so that is your 
strongest claim. Moreover, that text works both ways 
sometimes, and the stranger angel finds himself among 
angels. My old mother here, if she does weigh well on 
toward two hundred, is more like one than anything I have 
yet seen, and Elsie, if not an angel, is at least part witch and 
part fairy. But you need not fear ghostly entertainment 
from mother’s larder. As you are a Christian, and not a 
Pagan, no more of this reluctance. Indeed, nolens volens^ 
I shall not permit you to go out into this November storm 
to-night ; ” and Elsie, to her dismay, saw the new-comer 
led up to the spare room ” with a sort of hospitable 
violence. 

With flaming cheeks and eyes half full of indignant tears, 
she now. made onslaught on her mother, who had returned 
to the kitchen, where she was making preparations for a 
supper that might almost answer for the dinner the next 
day. 

‘‘ Mother, mother,” she exclaimed, “ how could you keep 
that disagreeable stranger ! He will spoil our Thanks- 
giving.” 

“Why, child, what is the matter? ” said Mrs. Alford, rais- 
ing her eyes in surprise to her daughter’s face, that looked 
like a red moon through the mist of savory vapors rising 
from the ample cooking- stove. “ I don’t understand you. 
Why should not your brother’s classmate add to the pleasure 
of our Thanksgiving?” 

“ Well, perhaps if we had expected him, if he had come 
in some other way, and we knew more about him — ” 

“Bless you, child, what a formalist you have become. 


26 o taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


You stand on a fine point of etiquette, as if it were the 
broad foundation of hospitality ; while only last week you 
wanted a ragged tramp, who had every appearance of being 
a thief, to stay all night. Your brother thinks it a special 
providence that his friend should have turned up so un- 
expectedly.” 

‘‘ Oh, dear ! ” sighed Elsie. “ If that is what the doc- 
trine of special providence means, I shall need a new con- 
fession of faith.” Then, a sudden thought occurring to her, 
she vanished, while her mother smiled, saying, — 

What a queer child she is, to be sure ! ” 

A moment later Elsie gave a sharp knock at the spare- 
room door, and in a second, was in the farther end of the 
dark hall. George put his head out. 

Come here,” she whispered. ‘‘ Are you sure it ’s you? ” 
she added, holding him off at arm’s length. 

His response was such a tempest of kisses and embraces 
that in her nervous state she was quite panic-stricken. 
George,” she gasped, “ have mercy on me ! ” 

I only wished to show you how he felt, so you would 
have some sympathy for him.” 

If you don’t stop,” said the almost desperate girl, “ I 
will shut myself up and not appear till he is gone. I will 
any way, if you don’t make me a solemn promise.” 

** Leave out the ‘ solemn.’ ” 

No, I won’t. Upon your word and honor, promise 
never to tell what has happened, — my mistake, I mean.” 

“ Oh, Elsie, it ’s too good to keep,” laughed George. 

*‘Now, George, if you tell,” sobbed Elsie, “you’ll spoil 
my holiday, your visit, and everything.” 

“If you feel that way, you foolish child, of course I 
won’t tell. Indeed, I suppose I should not, for Stanhope 
seems half frightened out of his wits also.” 


THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 26 1 

“ Serves him right, though I doubt whether he has many 
to lose,” said Elsie, spitefully. 

“ Well, I will do my best to keep in,” said George, sooth- 
ingly, and stroking her curls. “ But you will let it all out ; 
you see. The idea of your keeping anything with your 
April face ! ” 

Elsie acted upon the hint, and went to her room in order 
to remove all traces of agitation before the supper-bell 
should summon her to meet the dreaded stranger. 

In the mean time, Mr. Alford and James, the second son, 
had come up from the village, where they had a thriving 
business. They greeted George’s friend so cordially that 
it went some way toward putting the diffident youth at his 
ease ; but he dreaded meeting Elsie again quite as much 
as she dreaded meeting him. 

‘‘Who is this Mr. Stanhope?” his parents asked, as they 
drew George aside for a little private talk after his long 
absence. 

“Well, he is a classmate with whom I have long wished 
to get better acquainted ; but he is so shy and retiring that 
I have made little progress. He came from another sem- 
inary, and entered our class in this the middle year. No 
one seems to know much about him ; and indeed he has 
shunned all intimacies and devotes himself wholly to his 
books. The recitation-room is the one place where he 
appears well, — for there he speaks out, as if forgetting 
himself, or rather, losing himself in some truth under con- 
templation. Sometimes he will ask a question that wakes 
up both class and professor ; but at other times it seems 
difficult to pierce the shell of his reserve or diffidence. 
And yet, from little things I have seen, I know that he has 
a good warm heart ; and the working of his mind in the 
recitation-room fascinates me. Further than this I know 


262 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


little about him, but have just learned, from his explanation 
as to his unexpected appearance at our door, that he is 
very poor, and purposed to spend his holiday vacation as 
agent for a new magazine that is offering liberal premiums. 
I think his poverty is one of the reasons why he has so 
shrunk from companionship with the other students. He 
thinks he ought to go out and continue his efforts to-night.” 

“This stormy night!” ejaculated kindly Mrs. Alford. 
“It would be barbarous.” 

“ Certainly it would, mother. We must not let him. 
But you must all be considerate, for he seems excessively 
diffident and sensitive ; and besides — but no matter.” 

“No fear but that we will soon make him at home. And 
it ’s a pleasure to entertain people who are not surfeited 
with attention. I don’t understand Elsie, however, for she 
seems to have formed a violent prejudice against him. 
From the nature of her announcement of his presence I 
gathered that he was a rather fon\^ard young man.” 

There was a twinkle in George’s eye ; but he merely 
said, — 

“ Elsie is full of moods and tenses ; but her kind little 
heart is always the same, and that will bring her around all 
right.” 

They were soon after marshalled to the supper-room. 
Elsie slipped in among the others, but was so stately and 
demure, and with her curls brushed down so straight that 
you would scarcely have known her. Her father caught 
his pet around the waist, and was about to introduce 
her, when George hastened to say with the solemnity 
of an undertaker that Elsie and Mr. Stanhope had met 
before. 

Elsie repented the promise she had wrung from her 
brother, for any amount of badinage would be better than 


THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 263 

this depressing formality. She took her seat, not daring to 
look at the obnoxious guest ; and the family noticed with 
surprise that they had never seen the little maiden so 
quenched and abashed before. But George good-naturedly 
tried to make the conversation general, so as to give them 
time to recover themselves. 

Elsie soon ventured to steal shy looks at Mr. Stanhope, 
and with her usual quickness discovered that he was more 
in terror of her than she of him, and she exulted in the 
fact. 

I ’ll punish him well, if I get a chance,” she thdught 
with a certain phase of the feminine sense of justice. But 
the sadness of his face quite disarmed her when her mother, 
in well-meant kindness, asked, — 

‘‘Where is your home located, Mr. Stanhope?” 

“ In the seminary,” he answered in rather a low tone. 

“ You don’t mean to say that you have no better one 
than a forlorn cell in Dogma Hall?” exclaimed George, 
earnestly. 

Mr. Stanhope crimsoned, and then grew pale, but tried to 
say lightly, “ An orphan of my size and years is not a very 
moving object of sympathy ; but one might well find it diffi- 
cult not to break the Tenth Commandment while seeing 
how you are surrounded.” 

Elsie was vexed at her disposition to relent toward 
him; she so hardened her face, however, that James rallied 
her, — 

“Why, Puss, what is the matter? Yours is the most un- 
promising Thanksgiving phiz I have seen to-day. ‘ Count 
your marcies.’ ” 

Elsie blushed so violently, and Mr. Stanhope looked so 
distressed that James finished his supper in puzzled silence, 
tliinking, however, “ What has come over the little witch ? 


264 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES, 

For a wonder, she seems to have met a man that she is 
afraid of; but the joke is, he seems even more afraid of 
her.” 

In the social parlor some of the stiffness wore off; but 
Elsie and Mr. Stanhope kept on opposite sides of the room 
and had very little to say to each other. Motherly Mrs. 
Alford drew the young man out sufficiently, however, to 
become deeply interested in him. 

By the next morning time for thought had led him to 
feel that he must trespass on their hospitality no longer. 
Moreover, he plainly recognized that his presence was an 
oppression and restraint upon Elsie-; and he was very sorry 
that he had stayed at all. But when he made known his 
purpose the family would not listen to it. 

“ I should feel dreadfully hurt if you left us now,” said 
Mrs. Alford, so decidedly that he was in a dilemma, and 
stole a timid look toward Elsie, who at once guessed his 
motive in going away. Her kind heart got the better of 
her; and her face relented in a sudden reassuring smile. 
Then she turned hastily away. Only George saw and un- 
derstood the little side scene and the reason Mr. Stanhope 
was induced to remain. Then Elsie, in her quickly varying 
moods, was vexed at herself, and became more cold and 
distant than ever. He will regard me as only a pert, 
forward miss, but I will teach him better,” she thought; and 
she astonished the family more and more by a stateliness 
utterly unlike herself. Mr. Stanhope sincerely regretted 
that he had not broken away, in spite of the others ; but 
in order not to seem vacillating he resolved to stay till the 
following morning, even though he departed burdened with 
the thought that he had spoiled the day for one of the 
family. Things had now gone so far that leaving might 
only lead to explanations and more general annoyances, for 


THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 265 

George had intimated that the little mistake of the previous 
evening should remain a secret. 

And yet he sincerely wished she would relent toward him, 
for she could not make her sweet little face repellent. The 
kiss she had given him still seemed to tingle in his very 
soul, while her last smile was like a ray of warmest sunshine. 
But her face, never designed to be severe, was averted. 

After having heard the affairs of the nation discussed in 
a sound, scriptural manner, they all sat down to a dinner 
such as had never blessed poor Mr. Stanhope’s vision be- 
fore. A married son and daughter returned after church, 
and half a dozen grandchildren enlivened the gathering. 
There was need of them, for Elsie, usually in a state of 
wild effervescence upon such occasions, was now demure 
and comparatively silent. The children, with whom she 
\k^as accustomed to romp like one of them, were perplexed 
indeed ; and only the intense excitement of a Thanksgiving 
dinner diverted their minds from Aunt Elsie, so sadly 
changed. She was conscious that all were noting her ab- 
sent manner, and this embarrassed and vexed her more ; 
and yet she seemed under a miserable paralysis that she 
could neither explain nor escape. 

“ If we had only laughed it off at first,” she groaned to 
herself ; but now the whole thing grows more absurd and 
disagreeable every moment.” 

Why, Elsie,” said her father, banteringly, ‘‘you doubted, 
the other day whether Mrs. Methuselah’s age would ever 
sober you ; and yet I think that good old lady would have 
looked more genial on Thanksgiving Day. What is the 
matter? ” 

“ I was thinking of the sermon,” she said. 

Amid the comic elevation of eyebrows, George said 

slyly, — 


266 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


‘‘Tell us the text.” 

Overwhelmed with confusion, she darted a reproachful 
glance at him and muttered, — 

“ I did not say. anything about the text.” 

“ Well, tell us about the sermon then,” laughed James. 

“ No,” said Elsie, sharply. “ I ’ll quote you a text : 
‘ Eat, drink, and be merry,’ and let me alone.” 

They saw that for some reason she could not bear teas- 
ing, and that such badinage troubled Mr. Stanhope also. 
George came gallantly to the rescue, and the dinner-party 
grew so merry that Elsie thawed perceptibly and Stanhope 
was beguiled into several witty speeches. At each one 
Elsie opened her eyes in wider and growing appreciation. 
At last, when they rose from their coffee, she came to the 
surprising conclusion, — 

“ Why, he is not stupid and bad-looking after all.” 

George was bent on breaking the ice between them, and 
so proposed that the younger members of the family party 
should go up a swollen stream and see the fall. But Elsie 
flanked herself with a sister-in-law on one side and a niece on 
the other, while Stanhope was so diffident that nothing but 
downright encouragement would bring him to her side. So 
George was almost in despair. Elsie’s eyes had been con- 
veying favorable impressions to her reluctant mind through- 
out the walk. She sincerely regretted that such an absurd 
barrier had grown up between her and Stanhope, but could 
not for the life of her, especially before others, do anything 
to break the awkward spell. 

At last they were on their return, and were all grouped 
together on a little bluff, watching the water pour foamingly 
through a narrow gorge. 

“ Oh, see,” cried Elsie, suddenly pointing to the oppo- 
site bank, “ what beautiful moss that is over there ! It is 


THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 26 / 

just the kind I have been wanting. Oh, dear ! there is n’t 
a bridge within half a mile.” 

Stanhope glanced around a moment, and then said gal- 
lantly, ‘‘I will get you the moss. Miss Alford.” They saw 
that in some inconceivable way he intended crossing where 
they stood. The gorge was much too wide for the most 
vigorous leap, so Elsie exclaimed eagerly, — 

“ Oh, please don’t take any risk ! What is a little 
moss? ” 

I say. Stanhope,” remonstrated George, seriously, “ it 
would be no laughing matter if you should fall in there.” 

But Stanhope only smiled, threw off his overcoat, and but- 
toned his undercoat closely around him. George groaned to 
himself, “This will be worse than the kissing scrape,” and 
was about to lay a restraining grasp upon his friend. But 
he slipped away, and lightly went up hand-over-hand a tall, 
slender sapling on the edge of the bank, the whole party 
gathering round in breathless expectation. Having reached 
its slender, swaying top, he threw himself out on the land 
side. The tree bent at once to the ground with his weight, 
but without snapping, showing that it was tough and fi- 
brous. Holding firmly to the top, he gave a strong spring, 
which, with the spring of the bent sapling, sent him well 
over the gorge on the firm ground beyond. 

There was a round of applause from the little group he 
had just left, in which Elsie joined heartily. Her eyes were 
glowing with admiration, for when was not power and dar- 
ing captivating to a woman ? Then, in sudden alarm and 
forgetfulness of her former coolness, she exclaimed, — 

“ But how will you get back? ” 

“This is my bridge,”- he replied, smiling brightly across 
to her, and holding on to the slender young tree. “ You 
perceive that I was brought up in the country.” 


268 TAKEN ALIVE. AND OTHER STORIES 


So saying, he tied the sapling down to a root with a 
handkerchief, and then proceeded to fill another with 
moss. 

As George saw Elsie’s face while she watched Stanhope 
gather the coveted trifle, he chuckled to himself, — 

“The ice is broken between them now.” 

But Stanhope had insecurely fastened the sapling down. 
The strain upon the knot was too severe, and suddenly the 
young tree flew up and stood erect but quivering, with his 
handkerchief fluttering in its top as a symbol of defeat. 
There was an exclamation of dismay, and Elsie again 
asked with real anxiety in her tone, — 

“ How will you get back now? ” 

Stanhope shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I confess I am defeated, for there is no like sapling on 
this side ; but I have the moss, and can join you at the 
bridge below, if nothing better offers.” 

“ George,” said Elsie, indignantly, “ don’t go away and 
leave Mr. Stanhope’s handkerchief in that tree.” 

“ Bless you, child,” cried George, mischievously, and 
leading the way down the path, “ I can’t climb any more 
than a pumpkin. You will have to go back with him after 
it, or let it wave as a memento of his gallantry on your 
behalf” 

“ If I can only manage to throw them together without 
any embarrassing third parties present, the ridiculous re- 
straint they are under will soon vanish,” he thought ; and 
so he hastened his steps. The rest trooped after him, 
while Stanhope made his way with difficulty on the oppo- 
site bank, where there was no path. His progress there- 
fore was slow ; and Elsie saw that if she did not linger he 
would be left behind. Common politeness forbade this, 
and so she soon found herself alone, carrying his overcoat 


THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 269 

on one bank, and he keeping pace with her on the other. 
She comforted herself at first with the thought that with the 
brawling, deafening stream between them, there would be 
no chance for embarrassing conversation. But soon her 
sympathies became aroused, as she saw him toilsomely 
making his way over the rocks and through the tangled 
thickets; and as she could not speak to him, she smiled 
her encouragement so often that she felt it would be im- 
possible to go back to her old reserve. 

Stanhope now came to a little opening in the brush. 
The cleared ground sloped evenly down to the stream, 
and its current was divided by a large rock. He hailed 
the opportunity here offered with delight, for he was very 
anxious to speak to her before they should join the others. 
So he startled Elsie by walking out into the clearing, away 
from the stream. 

Well, I declare ; that ’s cool, to go and leave me alone 
without a word,” she thought. 

But she was almost terror-stricken to see him turn and 
dart to the torrent like an arrow. With a long flying leap, 
he landed on the rock in the midst of the stream, and 
then, without a second’s hesitation, with the impetus al- 
ready acquired, sprang for the solid ground where she 
stood, struck it, wavered, and would have fallen backward 
into the water had not she, quick as thought, stepped for- 
ward and given him her hand. 

You have saved me from a ducking, if not worse,” he 
said, giving the little rescuing hand a warm pressure. 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed she, panting, “ please don’t do any 
more dreadful things. I shall be careful how I make any 
wishes in your hearing again.” 

I am sorry to hear you say that,” he replied. And 
then there was an awkward silence^ 


2/0 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

Elsie could think of nothing better than to refer to the 
handkerchief they had left behind. 

Will you wait for me till I run and get it? ” he asked. 

I will go back with you, if you will permit me,” she 
said timidly. 

“ Indeed, I could not ask so much of you as that.” 

‘‘ And yet you could about the same as risk your neck 
to gratify a whim of mine,” she said more gratefully than 
she intended. 

Please do not think,” he replied earnestly, that I 
have been practising cheap heroics. As I said, I was a 
country boy, and in my early home thought nothing of 
doing such things.” But even the brief reference to that 
vanished home caused him to sigh deeply, and Elsie gave 
him a wistful look of sympathy. 

For a few moments they walked on in silence. Then 
Mr. Stanhope turned, and with some hesitation said, — 

Miss Alford, I did very wrong to stay after — after last 
evening. But my better judgment was borne down by in- 
vitations so cordial that I hardly knew how to resist them. 
At the same time I now realize that I should have done so. 
Indeed, I would go away at once, would not such a course 
only make matters worse. And yet, after receiving so 
much kindness from your family, more than has blessed 
me for many long years, — for since my dear mother died 
I have been quite alone in the world, — I feel I cannot go 
away without some assurance or proof that you will forgive 
me for being such a kill-joy in your holiday.” 

Elsie’s vexation with herself now knew no bounds. She 
stopped in the path, determining that she would clear up 
matters, cost what it might. 

Mr. Stanhope,” she said, will you grant a request that 
will contain such assurance, or rather, will show you that 


THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 2/1 

I am heartily ashamed of my foolish course? Will you not 
spend next Thanksgiving with us, and give me a chance to 
retrieve myself from first to last?” 

His face brightened wonderfully as he replied, “ I will 
only be too glad to do so, if you truly wish it.” 

I do wish it,” she said earnestly. ‘‘ What must you 
think of me?” (His eyes then expressed much admira- 
tion; but hers were fixed on the ground and half filled 
with tears of vexation.) Then, with a pretty humility 
that was exquisite in its simplicity and artlessness, she 
added, — 

“ You have noticed at home that they call me * child,’ — 
and indeed, I am little more than one, — and now see that 
I have behaved like a very silly and naughty one toward 
you. I have trampled on every principle of hospitality, 
kindness, and good-breeding. I have no patience with 
myself, and I wish another chance to show that I can do 
better. I — ” 

Oh, Miss Alford, please do not judge yourself so harshly 
and unjustly,” interrupted Stanhope. 

Oh, dear ! ” sighed Elsie, “ I ’m so sorry for what hap- 
pened last night. We all might have had such a good 
time.” 

Well, then,” said Stanhope, demurely, “ I suppose I 
ought to be also.” 

“ And do you mean to say that you are not? ” she asked, 
turning suddenly upon him. 

“ Oh, well, certainly, for your sake,” he said with rising 
color. 

'‘But not for your own?” she asked with almost the 
naivete of a child. 

He turned away with a perplexed laugh and replied, 
“ Really, Miss Alford, you are worse than the Catechism.” 


2/2 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

She looked at him with a half-amused, half- surprised ex- 
pression, the thought occurring to her for the first time that 
it might not have been so disagreeable to him after all ; 
and somehow this thought was quite a relief to her. But 
she said, “ I thought you would regard me as a hoyden 
of the worst species.” 

“ Because you kissed your brother ? I have never for a 
moment forgotten that it was only your misfortune that I 
was not he.” 

“ I should have remembered that it was not your fault. 
But here is your handkerchief, flying like a flag of truce ; 
so let bygones be bygones. My terms are that you come 
again another year, and give me a chance to entertain my 
brother’s friend as a sister ought.” 

“ I am only too glad to submit to them,” he eagerly re- 
plied, and then added, so ardently as to deepen the roses 
already in her cheeks, “ If such are your punishments. Miss 
Alford, how delicious must be your favors ! ” 

By common consent the subject was dropped ; and with 
tongues released from awkward restraint, they chatted freely 
together, till in the early twilight they reached her home. 
The moment they entered George exultingly saw that the 
skies were serene. 

But Elsie would never be the frolicsome child of the past 
again. As she surprised the family at dinner, so now at 
supper they could scarcely believe that the elegant, graceful 
young lady was the witch of yesterday. She had resolved 
with all her soul to try to win some place in Mr. Stanhope’s 
respect before he departed, and never did a little maiden 
succeed better. 

In the evening they had music ; and Mr. Stanhope pleased 
them all with his fine tenor, while Elsie delighted him by 
her clear birdlike voice. So the hours fled away. 


THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 


273 

‘‘You thinks better of the ‘horrid man,’ little Sis,” said 
George, as he kissed her good-night. 

“ I was the horrid one,” said Elsie, penitently. “ I can 
never forgive myself my absurd conduct. But he has prom- 
ised to come again next Thanksgiving, and give me a chance 
to do better ; so don’t you fail to bring him.” 

George gave a long, low whistle, and then said, “ Oh ! 
ah ! Seems to me you are coming on, for an innocent. 
Are we to get mixed up again in the twilight?” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Elsie, with a peony face, and she 
slammed her door upon him. 

The next morning the young man took his leave, and 
Elsie’s last words were, — 

“ Mr. Stanhope, remember your promise.” 

And he did remember more than that, for this brief visit 
had enshrined a sweet, girlish face within his heart of hearts, 
and he no longer felt lonely and orphaned. He and George 
became the closest friends, and messages from the New- 
England home came to him with increasing frequency, which 
he returned with prodigal interest. It also transpired that 
he occasionally wrote for the papers, and Elsie insisted that 
these should be sent to her ; while he of course wrote much 
' better with the certainty that she would be his critic. Thus, 
though separated, they daily became better acquainted, and 
during the year George found it not very difficult to induce 
his friend to make several visits. 

But it was with joy that seemed almost too rich for earthly 
experience that he found himself walking up the village 
street with George the ensuing Thanksgiving Eve. Elsie 
was at the door ; and he pretended to be disconsolate that 
his reception was not the same as on the previous year. 
Indeed she had to endure not a little chaffing, for her mis- 
take was a family joke now. 


18 


274 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

It was a peerless Thanksgiving eve and day, — one of the 
sunlighted heights of human happiness. 

After dinner they all again took a walk up the brawling 
stream, and Stanhope and Elsie became separated, from the 
rest, though not so innocently as on the former occasion. 

See ! ” cried Elsie, pointing to the well-remembered 
sapling, which she had often visited. ‘‘ There fluttered our 
flag of truce last year.” 

Stanhope seized her hand and said eagerly, And here 
I again break the truce, and renew the theme we dropped 
at this place. Oh, Elsie, I have felt that kiss in the depths 
of my heart every hour since ; and in that it led to my 
knowing and loving you, it has made every day from that 
time one of thanksgiving. If you could return my love, as I 
have dared to hope, it would be a happiness beyond words. 
If I could venture to take one more kiss, as a token that it 
is returned, I could keep Thanksgiving forever.” 

Her hand trembled in his, but was not withdrawn. Her 
blushing face was turned away toward the brawling stream ; 
but she saw not its foam, she heard not its hoarse murmurs. 
A sweeter music was in her ears. She seemed under a 
delicious spell, but soon became conscious that a pair of 
dark eyes were looking down eagerly, anxiously for her 
answer. Shyly raising hers, that now were like dewy violets, 
she said with a little of her old witchery, — 

“ I suppose you will have to kiss me this Thanksgiving, 
to make things even.” 

Stanhope needed no broader hint. 

‘*1 owe you a heavy grudge,” said Mr. Alford, in the 
evening. “ A year ago you robbed me of my child, for lit- 
tle, kittenish Elsie became a thoughtful woman from the 
day you were here ; and now you are going to take away 
the daughter of my old age.” 


THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES. 275 

“ Yes, indeed, husband. Now you know how my father 
felt,” said Mrs. Alford, at the same time wiping something 
from the corner of her eye. 

Bless me, are you here?” said the old gentleman, 
wheeling round to his wife. “ Mr. Stanhope, I have noth- 
ing more to say.” 

I declare,” exulted George, that ‘ horrid man will 
devour ’ Elsie yet.” 

Haw ! haw ! haw ! ” laughed big-voiced, big-hearted 
James. The idea of our little witch of an Elsie being a 
minister’s wife ! ” 

• • , /• • • 

It is again Thanksgiving Eve. The trees are gaunt, the 

fields bare and brown, with dead leaves whirling across 
them ; but a sweeter than June sunshine seems filling the 
cosey parlor where Elsie, a radiant bride, is receiving her 
husband’s first kiss almost on the moment that she with her 
lips so unexpectedly kindled the sacred fire, three years 
before. 


SUSIE ROLLIFFE’S CHRISTMAS. 


TDICNICKING in December would be a dreary expe- 
rience even if one could command all the appliances 
of comfort which outdoor life permitted. This would be 
especially true in the latitude of Boston and on the bleak 
hills overlooking that city and its environing waters. Dreary 
business indeed Ezekiel Watkins regarded it as he shivered 
over the smoky camp-fire which he maintained with diffi- 
culty. The sun was sinking into the southwest so early in 
the day that he remarked irritably, “ Durned if it was 
worth while for it to rise at all.” 

Ezekiel Watkins, or Zeke, as he was generally known 
among his comrades, had ceased to be a resident on that 
rocky hillside from pleasure. His heart was in a Con- 
necticut valley in more senses than one ; and there was not 
a more homesick Soldier in the army. It will be readily 
guessed that the events of our story occurred more than 
a century ago. The shots fired at Bunker Hill had echoed 
in every nook and comer of the New-England colonies, 
and the heart of Zeke Watkins, among thousands of others, 
had been fired with military ardor. With companions in 
like frame of mind he had trudged to Boston, breathing 
slaughter and extermination against the red-coated instru- 
ments of English tyranny. To Zeke the expedition had 


SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS. 2 7 / 

many of the elements of an extended bear-hunt, much 
exalted. There was a spice of danger and a rich promise 
of novelty and excitement. The march to the lines about 
Boston had been a continuous ovation ; grandsires came 
out from the wayside dwellings and blessed the rustic 
soldiers ; they were dined profusely by the housewives, and 
if not wined, there had been slight stint in New- England 
rum and cider; the apple-cheeked daughters of the land 
gave them the meed of heroes in advance, and abated 
somewhat of their ruddy hues at the thought of the dangers 
to be incurred. Zeke was visibly dilated by all this atten- 
tion, incense, and military glory ; and he stepped forth from 
each village and hamlet as if the world were scarcely large 
enough for the prowess of himself and companions. Even 
on parade he was as stiff as his long-barrelled flintlock, 
looking as if England could hope for no quarter at his 
hands ; yet he permitted no admiring glances,, from bright 
eyes to escape him. He had not traversed half the distance 
between his native hamlet and Boston before he was abun- 
dantly satisfied that pretty Susie Rolliffe had made no 
mistake in honoring him among the recruits by marks of 
especial favor. He wore in his squirrel- skin cap the bit 
of blue ribbon she had given him, and with the mien of a 
Homeric hero had intimated darkly that it might be crimson 
before she saw it again. She had clasped her hands, stifled 
a little sob, and looked at him admiringly. He needed no 
stronger assurance than her eyes conveyed at that moment. 
She had been shy and rather unapproachable before, sought 
by others than himself, yet very chary of her smiles and 
favors to all. Her ancestors had fought the Indians, and 
had bequeathed to the demure little maiden much of their 
own indomitable spirit. She had never worn her heart on 
her sleeve, and was shy of her rustic admirers chiefly because 


278 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

none of them had realized her ideals of manhood created 
by fireside stories of the past. 

Zeke’s chief competitor for Susie’s favor had been Zebulon 
Jarvis; and while he had received little encouragement, 
he laid his unostentatious devotion at *her feet unstintedly, 
and she knew it. Indeed, she was much inclined to laugh 
at him, for he was singularly bashful, and a frown from her 
overwhelmed him. Unsophisticated Susie reasoned that 
any one who could be so afraid of her could not be much 
of a man. She had never heard of his doing anything 
bold and spirited. It might be said, indeed, that the 
attempt to wring a livelihood for his widowed mother and 
for his younger brothers and sisters from the stumpy, rocky 
farm required courage of the highest order ; but it was not 
of a kind that appealed to the fancy of a romantic young 
girl. Nothing finer or grander had Zebulon attempted 
before the recruiting officer came to Opinquake, and when 
he came, poor Zeb appeared to hang back so timorously 
that he lost what little place he had in Susie’s thoughts. 
She was ignorant of the struggle taking place in his loyal 
heart. More intense even than his love for her was the pa- 
triotic fire which smouldered in his breast ; yet when other 
young men were giving in their names and drilling on the 
village green, he was absent. To the war appeals of those 
who sought him, he replied briefly, Can’t leave till fall.” 

“ But the fighting will be over long before that,” it was 
urged. 

So much the better for others, then, if not for me.” 

Zeke Watkins made it his business that Susie should hear 
this reply in the abbreviated form of, “ So much the better, 
then.” 

She had smiled scornfully, and it must be added, a little 
bitterly. In his devotion Zeb had been so helpless, so diffi- 


SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS. 


279 

dently unable to take his own part and make advances that 
she, from odd little spasms of sympathy, had taken his part 
for him, and laughingly repeated to herself in solitude all 
the fine speeches which she perceived he would be glad to 
make. But, as has been intimated, it seemed to her droll 
indeed that such a great stalwart fellow should appear panic- 
stricken in her diminutive presence. In brief, he had been 
timidity embodied under her demurely-mischievous blue 
eyes ; and now that the recruiting officer had come and 
marched away with his squad without him, she felt incensed 
that such a chicken-hearted fellow had dared to lift his eyes 
to her. 

“ It would go hard with the Widow Jarvis and all those 
children if Zeb ’listed,” Susie’s mother had ventured in half- 
hearted defence, for did she not look upon him as a prom- 
ising suitor. 

“The people of Opinquake wouldn’t let the widow or 
the children starve,” replied Susie, indignantly. “ If I was 
a big fellow like him, my country would not call me twice. 
Think how grandfather left grandma and all the children ! ” 

“ Well, I guess Zeb thinks he has his hands full, wrastling 
with that stony farm.” 

“ He need n’t come to see me any more, or steal glances 
at me ’tween meetings on Sunday,” said the girl, decisively. 

“ He cuts a sorry figure beside Zeke Watkins, who was the 
first to give in his name, and who began to march like a 
soldier even before he left us.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Rolliffe ; “ Zeke was very forward. If 
he holds out as he begun — Well, well, Zeke alius was a 
little forward, and able to speak for himself. You are young 
yet, Susan, and may learn before you reach my years that 
the race is n’t alius to the swift. Don’t be in haste to prom- 
ise yourself to any of the young men.” 


28 o taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

Little danger of my promising myself to a man who is 
afraid even of me ! I want a husband like grandfather. 
He was n’t afraid to face anything, and he honored his wife 
by acting as if she wasn’t afraid either.” 

Zeb gave Susie no chance to bestow the rebuffs she had 
premeditated. He had been down to witness the departure 
of the Opinquake quota, and had seen Susie’s farewell to 
Zeke Watkins. How much it had meant he was not sure, — 
enough to leave no hope or chance for him, he had believed ; 
but he had already fought his first battle, and it had been a 
harder one than Zeke Watkins or any of his comrades would 
ever engage in. He had returned and worked on the stony 
farm until dark. From dawn until dark he continued to 
work every secular day till September. 

His bronzed face grew as stern as it was thin ; and since 
he would no longer look at her, Susie Rolliffe began to 
steal an occasional and wondering glance at him ’tween 
meetings.” 

No one understood the young man or knew his plans ex- 
cept his patient, sad- eyed mother, and she learned more by 
her intuitions than from his spoken words. She idolized 
him, and he loved and revered her ; but the terrible Puri- 
tan restraint paralyzed manifestations of affection. She was 
not taken by surprise when one evening he said quietly, 
“ Mother, I guess I ’ll start in a day or two.” 

She could not repress a sort of gasping sob however, but 
after a few moments was able to say steadily, “ I supposed 
you were preparing to leave us.” 

Yes, mother, I ’ve been a-preparing. I ’ve done my 
best to gather in everything that would help keep you and 
the children and the stock through the winter. The corn is 
all shocked, and the older children can help you husk it, 
and gather in the pumpkins, the beans, and the rest. As 


SUSIE ROLLIFFE^S CHRISTMAS. 28 I 

soon as I finish digging the potatoes I think I ’ll feel better 
to be in the lines around Boston. I ’d have liked to have 
gone at first, but in order to fight as I ought I ’d want to 
remember there was plenty to keep you and the children.” 

I ’m afraid, Zebulon, you ’ve been fighting as well as 
working so hard all summer long. For my sake and the 
children’s, you ’ve been letting Susan Rolliffe think meanly 
of you.” 

I can’t help what she thinks, mother ; I ’ve tried not to 
act meanly.” 

‘‘ Perhaps the God of the widow and the fatherless will 
shield and bless you, my son. Be that as it may,” she 
added with a heavy sigh, “conscience and His will must 
guide in everything. If He says go forth to battle, what am 
I that I should stay you? ” Although she did not dream of 
the truth, the Widow Jarvis was a disciplined soldier herself. 
To her, faith meant unquestioning submission and obedi- 
ence ; she had been taught to revere a jealous and an exact- 
ing God rather than a loving one. The heroism with which 
she pursued her toilsome, narrow, shadowed pathway was as 
sublime as it was unrecognized on her part. After she had 
retired she wept sorely, not only because her eldest child 
was going to danger, and perhaps death, but also for the 
reason that her heart clung to him so weakly and selfishly, 
as she believed. With a tenderness of which she, was half- 
ashamed she filled his wallet with provisions which would 
add to his comfort, then, both to his surprise and her own, 
kissed him good-by. He left her and the younger brood 
with an aching heart of which there was little outward sign, 
and with no loftier ambition than to do his duty ; she fol- 
lowed him with deep, wistful eyes till he, and next the long 
barrel of his rifle, disappeared in an angle of the road, and 
then her interrupted work was resumed. 


282 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


Susie Rolliffe was returning from an errand to a neigh- 
bor’s when she heard the sound of long rapid steps. 

A hasty glance revealed Zeb in something like pursuit. 
Her heart fluttered slightly, for he had looked so stern and 
sad of late that she had felt a little sorry for him in spite of 
herself. But since he could wrastle ” with nothing more 
formidable than a stony farm, she did not wish to have any- 
thing to say to him, or meet the embarrassment of explain- 
ing a tacit estrangement. She was glad, therefore, that her 
gate was so near, and passed in as if she had not recog- 
nized him. She heard his steps become slower and pause 
at the gate, and then almost in shame in being guilty 
of too marked discourtesy, she turned to speak, but hes- 
itated in surprise, for now she recognized his equipment 
as a soldier. 

“ Why, Mr. Jarvis, where are you going? ” she exclaimed. 

A dull red flamed through the bronze of his thin cheeks 
as he replied awkwardly, “ I thought I ’d take a turn in the 
lines around Boston.” 

‘‘ Oh, yes,” she replied mischievously, “ take a turn in the 
lines. Then we may expect you back by corn-husking? ” 

He was deeply wounded, and in his embarrassment could 
think of no other reply than the familiar words, “ ‘ Let not 
him that girdeth on his harness boast himself as he that 
putteth it off.’ ” 

“ I can’t help hoping, Mr. Jarvis, that neither you nor 
others will put it off too soon, — not, at least, while King 
George claims to be our master. When we ’re free I can 
stand any amount of boasting.” 

“ You ’ll never hear boasting from me. Miss Susie ; ” and 
then an awkward silence fell between them. 

Shyly and swiftly she raised her eyes. He looked so 
humble, deprecatory, and unsoldierlike that she could not 


SUSIE ROLLI FEE'S CHRISTMAS. 283 

repress a laugh. “ I ’m not a British cannon,” she began, 

that you should be so fearful.” 

His manhood was now too deeply wounded for further 
endurance even from her, for he suddenly straightened him- 
self, and throwing his rifle over his shoulder, said sternly, 

I ’m not a coward. I never hung back from fear, but to 
keep mother from charity, so I could fight or die as God 
wills. You may laugh at the man who never gave you any- 
thing but love, if you will, but you shall never laugh at my 
deeds. Call that boasting or not as you please,” and he 
turned on his heel to depart. 

His words and manner almost took away the girl’s breath, 
so unexpected were they, and unlike her idea of the man. 
In that brief moment a fearless soldier had flashed himself 
upon her consciousness, revealing a spirit that would flinch 
at nothing, — that had not even quailed at the necessity of 
forfeiting her esteem, that his mother might not want. Hu- 
miliated and conscience-stricken that she had done him so 
much injustice, she rushed forward, crying, Stop, Zebulon ; 
please do not go away angry with me ! I do not forget 
that we have been old friends and playmates. I ’m willing 
to own that I ’ve been wrong about you, and that ’s a good 
deal for a girl to do. I only wish I were a man, and I ’d 
go with you.” 

Her kindness restored him to his awkward self again, and 
he stammered, “ I wish you were — no, I don’t — I merely 
stopped, thinking you might have a message ; but I ’d rather 
not take any to Zeke Watkins, — will, though, if you wish. 
It cut me all up to have you think I was afraid,” and then 
he became speechless. 

“ But you acted as if you were afraid of me, and that 
seemed so ridiculous.” 

He looked at her a moment so earnestly with his dark. 


284 TAKEM ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

deep-set eyes that hers dropped. Miss Susie,” he said 
slowly, and speaking with difficulty, I ain afraid of you, 
next to God. I don’t suppose I ’ve any right to talk to 
you so, and I will say good-by. I was reckless when I 
spoke before. Perhaps — you ’ll go and see mother. My 
going is hard on her.” 

His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, as if he were 
taking his last look, then he turned slowly away. 

“Good-by, Zeb,” she called softly. “ I didn’t — I don’t 
understand. Yes, I will go to see your mother.” 

Susie also watched him as he strode away. He thought 
he could continue on steadfastly without looking back, but 
when the road turned he also turned, fairly tugged right 
about by his loyal heart. She stood where he had left her, 
and promptly waved her hand. He doffed his cap, and 
remained a moment in an attitude that appeared to her 
reverential, then passed out of view. 

The moments lapsed, and still she stood in the gateway, 
looking down the vacant road as if dazed. Was it in truth 
awkward, bashful Zeb Jarvis who had just left her? He 
seemed a new and distinct being in contrast to the youth 
whom she had smiled at and in a measure scoffed at. The 
little Puritan maiden was not a reasoner, but a creature of 
impressions and swift intuitions. Zeb had not set his teeth, 
faced his hard duty, and toiled that long summer in vain. 
He had developed a manhood and a force which in one 
brief moment had enabled him to compel her recognition. 

“ He will face anything,” she murmured. “ He ’s afraid 
of only God and me ; what a strange thing to say, — afraid 
of me next to God ! Sounds kind of wicked. What can 
he mean? Zeke Watkins wasn’t a bit afraid of me. As 
mother said, he was a little forward, and I was fool enough 
to take him at his own valuation. Afraid of me ! How he 


SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS. 285 

stood with his cap off ! Do men ever love so ? Is there a 
kind of reverence in some men’s love? How absurd that a 
great strong, brave man, ready to face cannons, can bow 
down to such a little — ” Her fragmentary exclamations 
ended in a peal of laughter, but tears dimmed her blue 
eyes. 

Susie did visit Mrs. Jarvis, and although the reticent 
woman said little about her son, what she did say meant 
volumes to the girl who now had the right clew in interpret- 
ing his action and character. She too was reticent. New- 
England girls rarely gushed in those days, so no one knew 
she was beginning to understand. Her eyes, experienced 
in country work, were quick, and her mind active. It 
looks as if a giant had been wrestling with this stony farm,” 
she muttered. 

Zeb received no ovations on his lonely tramp to the lines, 
and the vision of Susie Rolliffe waving her hand from the 
gateway would have blinded him to all the bright and ad- 
miring eyes in the world. He was hospitably entertained, 
however, when there was occasion ; but the advent of men 
bound for the army had become an old story. Having at 
last inquired his way to the position occupied by the Con- 
necticut troops, he was assigned to duty in the same com- 
pany with Zeke Watkins, who gave him but a cool reception, 
and sought to overawe him by veteran-like airs. At first 
poor Zeb was awkward enough in his unaccustomed duties, 
and no laugh was so scornful as that of his rival. Young 
Jarvis, however, had not been many days in camp before he 
guessed that Zeke’s star was not in the ascendant. There 
was but little fighting required, but much digging of in- 
trenchments, drill, and monotonous picket duty. Zeke did 
not take kindly to such tasks, and shirked them when possi- 
ble. He was becoming known as the champion grumbler 


286 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


in the mess, and no one escaped his criticism, not even 
‘‘ Old Put,” — as General Putnam, who commanded the 
Connecticut quota, was called. Jarvis, on the other hand, 
performed his military duties as he had worked the farm, 
and rapidly acquired the bearing of a soldier. Indomi- 
table Putnam gave his men little rest, and was ever seek- 
ing to draw his lines nearer to Boston and the enemy’s 
ships. He virtually fought with pick and shovel, and his 
working parties were often exposed to fire while engaged in 
fortifying the positions successively occupied. The Opin- 
quake boys regarded themselves as well seasoned to such 
rude compliments, and were not a little curious to see how 
Zeb would handle a shovel with cannon-balls whizzing un- 
comfortably near. I'he opportunity soon came. Old Put 
himself could not have been more coolly oblivious than the 
raw recruit. At last a ball smashed his shovel to smither- 
eens ; he quietly procured another and went on with his 
work. Then his former neighbors gave him a cheer, while 
his captain clapped him on the shoulder and said, “ Pro- 
mote you to be a veteran on the spot ! ” 

The days had grown shorter, colder, and drearier, and 
the discomforts of camp-life harder to endure. There were 
few tents even for the officers, and the men were compelled 
to improvise such shelter as circumstances permitted. Huts 
of stone, wood, and brush, and barricades against the wind, 
lined the hillside, and the region already was denuded of al- 
most everything that would burn. Therefore, when Decem- 
ber came, Zeke Watkins found that even a fire was a luxury 
not to be had without trouble. He had become thoroughly 
disgusted with a soldier’s life, and the military glory which 
had at first so dazzled him now wore the aspect of the win- 
try sky. He had recently sought and attained the only pro- 
motion for which his captain now deemed him fitted, — that 


SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS, 287 

of cook for about a dozen of his comrades ; and the close 
of the December day found him preparing the meagre sup- 
per which the limited rations permitted. By virtue of his 
office, Zeke was one of the best-fed men in the army, for if 
there were any choice morsels he could usually manage to 
secure them ; still, he was not happy. King George and 
Congress were both pursuing policies inconsistent with his 
comfort, and he sighed more and more frequently for the 
wide kitchen-hearth of his home, which was within easy vis- 
iting distance of the Rollifife farm-house. His term of en- 
listment expired soon, and he was already counting the 
days. He was not alone in his discontent, for there was 
much homesickness and disaffection among the Connecti- 
cut troops. Many had already departed, unwilling to stay 
an hour after the expiration of their terms ; and not a few 
had anticipated the periods which legally released them 
from duty. The organization of the army was so loose 
that neither appeals nor threats had much influence, and 
Washington, in deep solicitude, saw his troops melting 
away. 

It was dark by the time the heavy tramp of the working 
party was heard returning from the fortifications. The great 
mess-pot, partly filled with pork and beans, was bubbling 
over the fire ; Zeke, shifting his position from time to time 
to avoid the smoke which the wind, as if it had a spite 
against him, blew in his face, was sourly contemplating his 
charge and his lot, bent on grumbling to the others with 
even greater gusto than he had complained to himself. His 
comrades carefully put away their intrenching tools, for they 
were held responsible for them, and then gathered about 
the fire, clamoring for supper. 

^‘Zeke, you lazy loon,” cried Nat Atkinson, “ how many 
pipes have you smoked to-day ? If you ’d smoke less and 


288 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

forage and dun the commissary more, we ’d have a little 
fresh meat once in a hundred years.” 

“Yes, just about once in a hundred years I ” snarled 
Zeke. 

“ You find something to keep fat on, anyhow. We ’ll 
broil you some cold night. Trot out your beans if there ’s 
nothing else.” 

“ Growl away,” retorted Zeke. “ ’T won’t be long before 
I ’ll be eating chickens and pumpkin- pie in Opinquake, 
instead of cooking beans and rusty pork for a lot of hungry 
wolves.” 

“ You ’d be the hungriest wolf of the lot if you ’d ’a ' been 
picking and shovelling frozen ground all day.” 

“ I did n’t ’list to be a ditch-digger ! ” said Zeke. “ I 
thought I was going to be a soldier.” 

“And you turned out a cook!” quietly remarked Zeb 
Jarvis. 

“Well, my hero of the smashed shovel, what do you 
expect to be, — Old Put’s successor? You know, fellows, 
it ’s settled that you ’re to dig your way into Boston, tunnel 
under the water when you come to it. Of course Put will 
die of old age before you get half there. Zeb ’ll be the chap 
of all others to command a division of shovellers. I see you 
with a pickaxe strapped on your side instead of a sword.” 

“ Lucky I ’m not in command now,” replied Zeb, “ or 
you ’d shovel dirt under fire to the last hour of your en- 
listment. I ’d give grumblers like you something to grumble 
about. See here, fellows, I ’m sick of this seditious talk in 
our mess. The Connecticut men are getting to be the talk 
of the army. You heard a squad of New-Hampshire boys 
jeer at us to-day, and ask, ‘ When are ye going home to 
mother?’ You ask, Zeke Watkins, what I expect to be. 
I expect to be a soldier, and obey orders as long as Old Put 


SUSIE ROLLI FEE'S CHRISTMAS. 289 

and General Washington want a man. All I ask is to be 
home summers long enough to keep mother and the chil- 
dren off the town. Now what do you expect to be after 
you give up your cook’s ladle?” 

“ None o’ your business.” 

“ He ’s going home to court Susie Rolliffe,” cried Nat 
Atkinson. “They ’ll be married in the spring, and go into 
the chicken business. That ’d just suit Zeke.” 

“ It would not suit Susie Rolliffe,” said Zeb, hotly. “ A 
braver, better girl does n’t breathe in the colonies, and the 
man that says a slurring word against her ’s got to fight me.” 

“ What ! Has she given Zeke the mitten for your sake, 
Zeb?” piped little Hiram Woodbridge. 

“ She has n’t given me anything, and I ’ve got no claim ; 
but she is the kind of girl that every fellow from Opinquake 
should stand up for. We all know that there is nothing 
chicken-hearted about her.” 

“ Right, by George, — George W., I mean, and not the 
king,” responded Hiram Woodbridge. “ Here ’s to her 
health, Zeb, and your success ! I believe she ’d rather 
marry a soldier than a cook.” 

“Thank you,” said Zeb. “You stand as good a chance 
as I do ; but don’t let ’s bandy her name about in camp 
any more ’n we would our mothers’. The thing for us to 
do now is to show that the men from Connecticut have as 
much backbone as any other fellows in the army, North or 
South. Zeke may laugh at Old Put’s digging, but you ’ll 
soon find that he ’ll pick his way to a point where he can 
give the Britishers a dig under the fifth rib. We ’ve got 
the best general in the army. Washington, with all his 
Southern style, believes in him and relies on him. Whether 
their time ’s up or not, it ’s a burning shame that so many 
of his troops are sneaking off home.” 

19 


290 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

‘‘ It ’s all very well for you to talk, Zeb Jarvis,” growled 
Zeke. You have n’t been here very long yet ; and you 
stayed at home when others started out to fight. Now that 
you ’ve found that digging and not fighting is the order of 
the day, you ’re just suited. It ’s the line of soldiering you 
are cut out for. When fighting men and not ditch-diggers 
are wanted, you ’ll find me — ” 

*‘A11 right, Watkins,” said the voice of Captain Dean 
from without the circle of light. According to your own 
story you are just the kind of man needed to-night, — no 
ditch-digging on hand, but dangerous service. I detail you, 
for you ’ve had rest compared with the other men. I ask 
for volunteers from those who ’ve been at work all day.” 

Zeb Jarvis was on his feet instantly, and old Ezra Stokes 
also began to rise with difficulty. No, Stokes,” resumed 
the officer, you can’t go. I know you ’ve suffered with 
the rheumatism all day, and have worked well in spite of it. 
For to-night’s work I want young fellows with good legs 
and your spirit. How is it you ’re here anyhow, Stokes ? 
Your time ’s up.” 

We ain’t into Boston yet,” was the quiet reply. 

‘‘ So you want to stay? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Then you shall cook for the men till you’re better. 

I won’t keep so good a soldier, though, at such work any 
longer than I can help. Your good example and that of 
the gallant Watkins has brought out the whole squad. I 
think I ’ll put Jarvis in command, though ; Zeke might be 
rash, and attempt the capture of Boston before morning ; ” 
and the facetious captain, who had once been a neighbor, 
concluded, “Jarvis, see that every man’s piece is primed 
and ready for use. Be at my hut in fifteen minutes.” 
Then he passed on to the other camp-fires. 


SUSIE ROLLIFFKS CHRISTMAS. 


291 


In a few minutes Ezra Stokes was alone by the fire, 
almost roasting his lame leg, and grumbling from pain and 
the necessity of enforced inaction. He was a taciturn, 
middle-aged man, and had been the only bachelor of mature 
years in Opinquake. Although he rarely said much, he 
had been a great listener, and no one had been better 
versed in neighborhood affairs. In brief, he had been the 
village cobbler, and had not only taken the measure of 
Susie Rolliffe’s little foot, but also of her spirit. Like her- 
self he had been misled at first by the forwardness of Zeke 
Watkins and the apparent backwardness of Jarvis. Actual 
service had changed his views very decidedly. When Zeb 
appeared he had watched the course of this bashful suitor 
with interest which had rapidly ripened into warm but 
undemonstrative good-will. The young fellow had taken 
pains to relieve the older man, had carried his tools for 
him, and more than once with his strong hands had almost 
rubbed the rheumatism out of the indomitable cobbler’s 
leg. He had received but slight thanks, and had acted 
as if he did n’t care for any. Stokes was not a man to 
return favors in words ; he brooded over his gratitude as 
if it were a grudge. “ I ’ll get even with that young Jarvis 
yet,” he muttered, as he nursed his leg over the fire. “ 1 
know he worships the ground that little Rolliffe girl treads 
on, though she don’t tread on much at a time. She never 
trod on me nuther, though I ’ve had her foot in my hand 
more ’n once. She looked at the man that made her shoe? 
as if she would like to make him happier. When a little 
tot, she used to say I could come and live with her when 
I got too old to take care of myself. Lame as I be, I ’d 
walk to Opinquake to give her a hint in her choosin’. 
Guess Hi Woodbridge is right, and she would n’t be long 
in making up her mind betwixt a soger and a cook, — a 


292 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

mighty poor one at that. Somehow or nuther I must let 
her know before Zeke Watkins sneaks home and parades 
around as a soldier ’bove ditch-digging. I Ve taken his 
measure. 

“ He ’ll be putting on veteran airs, telling big stories of 
what he ’s going to do when soldiers are wanted, and dril- 
ling such fools as believe in him. Young gals are often 
taken by such strutters, and think that men like Jarvis who 
dars n’t speak for themselves are of no account. But I ’ll 
put a spoke in Zeke’s wheel, if I have to get the captain 
to write.” 

It thus may be gathered that the cobbler had much to 
say to himself when alone, though so taciturn to others. 

The clouds along the eastern horizon were stained with 
red before the reconnoitring party returned. Stokes had 
managed, by hobbling about, to keep up the fire and to fill 
the mess-kettle with the inevitable pork and beans. The 
hungry, weary men therefore gave their new cook a cheer 
when they saw the good fire and provision awaiting them. 
A moment later, however, Jarvis observed how lame Stokes 
had become ; he took the cobbler by the shoulder and sat 
him down in the warmest nook, saying, “ I ’ll be assistant 
cook until you are better. As Zeke says, I ’m a wolf sure 
enough ; but as soon ’s the beast’s hunger is satisfied, I ’ll 
rub that leg of yours till you ’ll want to dance a jig ; ” and 
with the ladle wrung from Stokes’s reluctant hand, he began 
stirring the seething contents of the kettle. 

Then little Hi Woodbridge piped in his shrill voice. 
Another cheer for our assistant cook and ditch-digger ! 
I say, Zeke, would n’t you like to tell Ezra that Zeo has 
showed himself fit for something more than digging ? You 
expressed your opinion very plain last night, and may have 
a different one now.” 


SUSIE'S- ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS. 


293 

Zeke growled something inaudible, and stalked to his hut 
in order to put away his equipments. 

“I’m cook-in-chief yet,” Stokes declared; “and not 
a bean will any one of you get till you report all that 
happened.” 

“Well,” piped Hi, “you may stick a feather in your old 
cap, Ezra, for our Opinquake lad captured a British offi- 
cer last night, and Old Put is pumping him this blessed 
minute.” 

“Well, well, that is news. It must have been Zeke who 
did that neat job,” exclaimed Stokes, ironically; “he’s 
been a-pining for the soldier business.” 

“ No, no ; Zeke ’s above such night scrimmages. He 
wants to swim the bay and walk right into Boston in broad 
daylight, so everybody can see him. Come, Zeb, tell how 
it happened. It was so confounded dark, no one can tell 
but you.” 

“There isn’t much to tell that you fellows don’t know,” 
was Zeb’s laconic answer. “ We had sneaked down on the 
neck so close to the enemy’s lines — ” 

“ Yes, yes, Zeb Jarvis,” interrupted Stokes, “ that ’s the 
kind of sneaking you ’re up to, — close to the enemy’s lines. 
Go on.” 

“ Well, I crawled up so close that I saw a Britisher going 
the round of the sentinels, and I pounced on him and 
brought him out on the run, that ’s all.” 

“ Oho ! you both ran away, then ? That was n’t good 
soldiering either, was it, Zeke?” commented Stokes, in his 
dry way. 

“ It ’s pretty good soldiering to stand fire within an inch 
of your nose,” resumed Hi, who had become a loyal friend 
and adherent of his tall comrade. “ Zeb was so close on 
the Britisher when he fired his pistol that we saw the faces 


294 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


of both in the flash ; and a lot of bullets sung after us, I 
can tell you, as we dusted out of those diggin’s.” 

Compliments of General Putnam to Sergeant Zebulon 
Jarvis,” said an orderly, riding out of the dim twilight of 
the morning. “The general requests your presence at 
headquarters.” 

“ Sergeant ! promoted ! Another cheer for Zeb ! ” and 
the Opinquake boys gave it with hearty good-will. 

“Jerusalem, fellows ! I’d like to have a chance at those 
beans before I go ! ” but Zeb promptly tramped off with 
the orderly. 

When he returned he was subjected to a fire of questions 
by the two or three men still awake, but all they could get 
out of him was that he had been given a good breakfast. 
From Captain Dean, who was with the general at the time 
of the examination, it leaked out that Zeb was in the line 
of promotion to a rank higher than that of sergeant. 

The next few days passed uneventfully ; and Zeke was 
compelled to resume the pick and shovel again. Stokes 
did his best to fulfil his duties, but it had become evident 
to all that the exposure of camp would soon disable him 
utterly. Jarvis and Captain Dean persuaded him to go 
home for the winter, and the little squad raised a sum which 
enabled him to make the journey in a stage. Zeke, silllen 
toward his jeering comrades, but immensely elated in secret, 
had shaken the dust — snow and slush rather — of camp- 
life from his feet the day before. He had the grace to 
wait till the time of his enlistment expired, and that was 
more than could be said of many. 

It spoke well for the little Opinquake quota that only two 
others besides Zeke availed themselves of their liberty. 
Poor Stokes was almost forced away, consoled by the hope 
of returning in the spring. Zeb was sore-hearted on the 


SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS. 295 

day of Zeke’s departure. His heart was in the Connecticut 
Valley also. No message had come to him from Susie 
Rolliffe. Those were not the days of swift and frequent 
communication. Even Mrs. Jarvis had written but seldom, 
and her missives were brief. Mother- love glowed through 
the few quaint and scriptural phrases like heat in anthracite 
coals. All that poor Zeb could learn from them was that 
Susie Rolliffe had kept her word and had been to the farm 
more than once ; but the girl had been as reticent as the 
mother. Zeke was now on his way home to prosecute his 
suit in person, and Zeb well knew how forward and plaus- 
ible he could be. There was no deed of daring that he 
would not promise to perform after spring opened, and Zeb 
reasoned gloomily that a present lover, impassioned and 
importunate, would stand a better chance than an absent 
one who had never been able to speak for himself. 

When it was settled that Stokes should return to Opin- 
quake, Zeb determined that he would not give up the prize 
to Zeke without one decisive effort ; and as he was rubbing 
the cobbler’s leg, he stammered, ‘‘ I say, Ezra, will you do 
me a turn? ’T won’t be so much, what I ask, except that 
I ’ll like you to keep mum about it, and you ’re a good 
hand at keeping mum.” 

I know what yer driving at, Zeb. Write yer letter and 
I ’ll deliver it with my own hands.” 

Well, now I ’m satisfied, I can stay on and fight it out 
with a clear mind. When Zeke marched away last summer, 
I thought it was all up with me ; and I can tell you that 
any fighting that ’s to do about Boston will be fun compared 
with the fighting I did while hoeing corn and mowing grass. 
But I don’t believe that Susie Rolliffe is promised to Zeke 
Watkins, or any one else yet, and I ’m going to give her a 
chance to refuse me plump.” 


296 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“That ’s the way to do it, Zeb,” said the bachelor cob- 
bler, with an emphasis that would indicate much successful 
experience. “ Asking a girl plump is like standing up in a 
fair fight. It gives the girl a chance to bowl you over, if 
that ’s her mind, so there can’t be any mistake about it ; 
and it seems to me the women-folks ought to have all the 
chances that in any way belong to them. They have got 
few enough anyhow.” 

“ And you think it ’ll end in my being bowled over ? ” 

“ How should I know, or you either, unless you make a 
square trial? You’re such a strapping, fighting feller that 
nothing but a cannon-ball or a woman ever will knock you 
off your pins.” 

“ See here, Ezra Stokes, the girl of my heart may refuse 
me just as plump as I offer myself ; and if that ’s her mind 
she has a right to do it. But I don’t want either you or 
her to think I won’t stand on my feet. I won’t even fight 
any more recklessly than my duty requires. I have a 
mother to take care of, even if I never have a wife.” 

“ I ’ll put in a few pegs right along to keep in mind what 
you say ; and I ’ll give you a fair show by seeing to it that 
the girl gets your letter before Zeke can steal a march 
on you.” 

“ That ’s all I ask,” said Zeb, with compressed lips. 
“ She shall choose between us. It ’s hard enough to write, 
but it will be a sight easier than facing her. Not a word 
of this to another soul, Ezra ; but I ’m not going to use you 
like a mail- carrier, but a friend. After all, there are few in 
Opinquake, I suppose, but know I ’d give my eyes for her, 
so there isn’t much use of my putting on secret airs.” 

“ I ’m not a talker, and you might have sent your letter 
by a worse messenger ’n me,” was the laconic reply. 

Zeb had never written a love-letter, and was at a loss how 


SUSIE ROLLIFFE^S CHRISTMAS. 


297 

to begin or end it. But time pressed, and he had to say 
what was uppermost in his mind. It ran as follows : — 

“ I don’t know how to write so as to give my words weight. 

I cannot come home ; I will not come as long as mother and 
the children can get on without me. And men are needed here ; 
men are needed. The general fairly pleads with the soldiers 
to stay. Stokes would stay if he could. We ’re almost driving 
him home. I know you will be kind to him, and remember he 
has few to care for him. I cannot speak for myself in person 
very soon, if ever. Perhaps I could not if I stood before you 
You laugh at me ; but if you knew how I love you and remember 
you, how I honor and almost worship you in my heart, you 
might understand me better. Why is it strange I should be 
afraid of you ? Only God has more power over me than you. 
Will you be my wife ? I will do anything to win you that you 
can ask. Others will plead with you in person. Will you let 
this letter plead for the absent ? ” 

Zeb went to the captain’s quarters and got some wax 
with which to seal this appeal, then saw Stokes depart with 
the feeling that his destiny was now at stake. 

Meanwhile Zeke Watkins, with a squad of homeward- 
bound soldiers, was trudging toward Opinquake. They« 
soon began to look into one another’s faces in something 
like dismay. But little provision was in their wallets when 
they had started, for there was little to draw upon, and that 
furnished grudgingly, as may well be supposed. Zeke had 
not cared. He remembered the continuous feasting that 
had attended his journey to camp, and supposed that he 
would only have to present himself to the roadside farm- 
houses in order to enjoy the fat of ^the land. This hospi- 
tality he proposed to repay abundantly by camp reminis- 
cences in which it would not be difficult to insinuate that 
the hero of the scene was present. 

In contrast to these rose-hued expectations, doors were 


298 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

slammed in their faces, and they were treated little better 
than tramps. “ I suppose the people near Boston have 
been called on too often and imposed on too,” Zeke rea- 
soned rather ruefully. “ When we once get over the Con- 
necticut border we ’ll begin to find ourselves at home ; ” 
and spurred by hunger and cold, as well as hope, they 
pushed on desperately, subsisting on such coarse provisions 
as they could obtain, sleeping in barns when it stormed, 
and not infrequently by a fire in the woods. At last they 
passed the Connecticut border, and led by Zeke they urged 
their way to a large farm-house, at which, but a few months 
before, the table had groaned under rustic dainties, and 
feather-beds had luxuriously received the weary recruits 
bound to the front. They approached the opulent farm in 
the dreary dark of the evening, and pursued by a biting 
east wind laden with snow. Not only the weather, but the 
very dogs seemed to have a spite against them ; and the 
family had to rush out to call them off. 

“ Weary soldiers ask for shelter,” began Zeke. 

“ Of course you ’re bound for the lines,” said the mat- 
ronly housewife. “Come in.” 

Zeke thought they would better enter at once, before ex- 
plaining ; and truly the large kitchen, with a great fire blaz- 
ing on the hearth, seemed like heaven. The door leading 
into the family sitting-room was open, and there was another 
fire, with the red-cheeked girls and the white-haired grand- 
sire before it, their eyes turned expectantly toward the new- 
comers. Instead of hearty welcome, there was a question- 
ing look on every face, even on that of the kitchen-maid. 
Zeke’s four companions had a sort of hang-dog look, — for 
they had been cowed by the treatment received along 
the road ; but he tried to bear himself confidently, and be- 
gan with an insinuating smile, “ Perhaps I should hardly 


SUSIE EOLLIFFE’S CHRISTMAS. 


299 

expect you to remember me. I passed this way last 
summer — ” 

'' Passed this way last summer ? ” repeated the matron, 
her face growing stern. We who cannot fight are ready 
and glad to share all we have with those who fight for us. 
Since you carry arms we might very justly think you are 
hastening forward to use them.” 

These are our own arms ; we furnished them ourselves,” 
Zeke hastened to say. 

“ Oh, indeed,” replied the matron, coldly ; “ I supposed 
that not only the weapons, but the ones who carry them, 
belonged to the country. I hope you are not deserting 
from the army.” 

“ I assure you we are not. Our terms of enlistment 
have expired.” 

“ And your country’s need was over at the same moment? 
Are you hastening home at this season to plough and sow 
and reap? ” 

Well, madam, after being away so long we felt like 
having a little comfort and seeing the folks. We stayed as 
long as we agreed. When spring opens, or before, if 
need be — ” 

‘‘ Pardon me, sir ; the need is now. The country is not 
to be saved by men who make bargains like day-laborers, 
and who quit when the hour is up, but by soldiers who give 
themselves to their country as they would to their wives and 
sweethearts. My husband and sons are in the army you 
have deserted. General Washington has written to our 
governor asking whether an example should not be made 
of the men who have deserted the cause of their country at 
this critical time when the enemy are receiving re-enforce- 
ments. We are told that Connecticut men have brought 
disgrace on our colony and have imperilled the whole 


300 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


army. You feel like taking comfort and seeing the folks. 
The folks do not feel like seeing you. My husband and 
the brave men in the lines are in all the more danger be- 
cause of your desertion, for a soldier’s time never expires 
when the enemy is growing stronger and threatening every 
home in the land. If all followed your example, the British 
would soon be upon your heels, taking from us our honor 
and our all. We are not ignorant of the critical condition 
of our army ; and I can tell you, sir, that if many more of 
our men come home, the women will take their places.” 

Zeke’s companions succumbed to the stern arraignment, 
and after a brief whispered consultation one spoke for the 
rest. Madam,” he said, “ you put it in a way that we 
had n’t realized before. We ’ll right-about-face and march 
back in the morning, for we feel that we ’d rather face 
all the British in Boston than any more Connecticut 
women.” 

Then, sirs, you shall have supper and shelter and wel- 
come,” was the prompt reply. 

Zeke assumed an air of importance as he said, “ There 
are reasons why I must be at home for a time, but I not 
only expect to return, but also to take many back with me.” 

“ I trust your deeds may prove as large as your words,” 
was the chilly reply ; and then he was made to feel that he 
was barely tolerated. Some hints from his old associates 
added to the disfavor which the family took but little pains 
to conceal. There was a large vein of selfish calculation 
in Zeke’s nature, and he was not to be swept away by any 
impulses. He believed he could have a prolonged visit 
home, yet manage so admirably that when he returned he 
would be followed by a squad of recruits, and chief of all 
he would be the triumphant suitor of Susie Rolliffe. Her 
manner in parting had satisfied him that he had made so 


SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS. 


301 

deep an impression that it would be folly not to follow it 
up. He trudged the remainder of the journey alone, and 
secured tolerable treatment by assuring the people that he 
was returning for recruits for the army. He reached homo 
in the afternoon of Christmas ; and although the day was 
almost completely ignored in the Puritan household, yet 
Mrs. Watkins forgot country, Popery, and all, in her mother- 
love, and Zeke supped on the finest turkey of the flock. 
Old Mr. Watkins, it is true, looked rather grim, but the 
reception had been reassuring in the main ; and Zeke had 
resolved on a line of tactics which would make him, as he 
believed, the military hero of the town. After he had satis- 
fied an appetite which had been growing ever since he left 
camp, he started to call on Susie in all the bravery of his 
best attire, filled with sanguine expectations inspired by 
memories of the past and recent potations of cider. 

Meanwhile Susie had received a guest earlier in the day. 
The stage had stopped at the gate where she had stood in 
the September sunshine and waved her bewildered farewell 
to Zeb. There was no bewilderment or surprise now at her 
strange and unwonted sensations. She had learned why she 
had stood looking after him dazed and spellbound. Under 
the magic of her own light irony she had seen her drooping 
rustic lover transformed into the ideal man who could face 
anything except her unkindness. She had guessed the deep 
secret of his timidity. It was a kind of fear of which she 
had not dreamed, and which touched her innermost soul. 

When the stage stopped at the gate, and she saw the 
driver helping out Ezra Stokes, a swift presentiment made 
her sure that she would hear from one soldier who was 
more to her than all the generals. She was soon down the 
walk, the wind sporting in her light-gold hair, supporting 
the cobbler on the other side. 


302 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

Ah, Miss Susie ! ” he said, “ I am about worn out, sole 
and upper. It breaks my heart, when men are so sorely 
needed, to be thrown aside like an old shoe.” 

The girl soothed and comforted him, ensconced him by 
the fireside, banishing the chill from his heart, while Mrs. 
Rolliffe warmed his blood by a strong, hot drink. Then 
the mother hastened away to get dinner, while Susie sat 
down near, nervously twisting and untwisting her fingers, 
with questions on her lips which she dared not utter, but 
which brought blushes to her cheeks. Stokes looked at 
her and sighed over his lost youth, yet smiled as he 
thought, “ Guess I ’ll get even with that Zeb Jarvis to-day.” 
Then he asked, “ Is n’t there any one you would like to 
hear about in camp?” 

She blushed deeper still, and named every one who had 
gone from Opinquake except Zeb. At last she said a little 
ironically, “ I suppose Ezekiel Watkins is almost thinking 
about being a general about this time? ” 

“ Has n’t he been here telling you what he is thinking 
about? ” 

Been here ! Do you mean to say he has come 
home? ” 

“ He surely started for home. All the generals and a 
yoke of oxen could n’t ’a’ kept him in camp, he was so 
homesick, — lovesick too, I guess. Powerful compliment to 
you. Miss Susie,” added the politic cobbler, feeling his way, 
“ that you could draw a man straight from his duty like 
one of these ’ere stump-extractors.” 

“No compliment to me at all !” cried the girl, indig- 
nantly. “He little understands me who seeks my favor 
by coming home at a time like this. The Connecticut 
women are up in arms at the way our men are coming 
home. No offence to you, Mr. Stokes. You ’re sick, and 


SUSIE ROLLIFFE’S CHRISTMAS, 


303 

should come ; but I ’d like to go myself to show some of 
the strong young fellows what we think of them.” 

Coming home was worse than rheumatism to me, 
and I ’m going back soon ’s I kin walk without a cane. 
Would nT: ’a’ come as ’t is, if that Zeb Jarvis had n’t jes’ 
packed me off. By Jocks ! I thought you and he was 
acquainted, but you don’t seem to ask arter him.” 

‘‘ I felt sure he would try — I heard he was doing his 
duty,” she replied with averted face. 

“ Zeke Watkins says he ’s no soldier at all, — nothing but 
a dirt- digger.” 

For a moment, as the cobbler had hoped, Susie forgot 
her blushes and secret in her indignation. “ Zeke Wat- 
kins indeed ! ” she exclaimed. ‘‘ He ’d better not tell me 
any such story. I don’t believe there ’s a braver, truer 
man in the — Well,” she added in sudden confusion, 

he has n’t run away and left others to dig their way into 
Boston, if that ’s the best way of getting there.” 

‘‘Ah, I’m going to get even with him yet,” chuckled 
Stokes to himself. “ Digging is only the first step, Miss 
Susie. When Old Put gets good and ready, you ’ll hear 
the thunder of the guns a’ most in Opinquake.” 

“Well, Mr. Stokes,” stammered Susie, resolving despe- 
rately on a short cut to the knowledge she craved, “ you ’ve 
seen Mr. Jarvis a-soldiering. What do you think about 
it?” 

“ Well, now, that Zeb Jarvis is the sneakin’ist fellow — ” 

“What?” cried the girl, her face aflame. 

“Wait till I get in a few more pegs,” continued Stokes, 
coolly. “The other night he sneaked right into the ene- 
my’s lines and carried off a British officer as a hawk takes 
a chicken. The Britisher fired his pistol right under Zeb’s 
nose ; but, law ! he did n’t mind that any more ’n a ’sketer- 


304 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

bite. I call that soldiering, don’t you? Anyhow, Old 
Put thought it was, and sent for him ’fore daylight, and 
made a sergeant of him. If I had as good a chance of 
gettin’ rid of the rheumatiz as he has of bein’ captain in 
six months, I ’d thank the Lord.” 

Susie sat up very straight, and tried to look severely 
judicial; but her lip was quivering and her whole plump 
little form trembling with excitement and emotion. Sud- 
denly she dropped her face in her hands and cried in a 
gust of tears and laughter, He ’s just like grandfather ; 
he ’d face anything ! ” 

Anything in the ’tarnal universe, I guess, ’cept you, 
Miss Susie. I seed a cannon-ball smash a shovel in his 
hands, and he got another, and went on with his work cool 
as a cucumber. Then I seed him writin’ a letter to you, 
and his hand trembled — ” 

“A letter to me ! ” cried the girl, springing up. 

Yes ; ’ere it is. I was kind of pegging around till I 
got to that; and you know — ” 

But Susie was reading, her hands also trembling so she 
scarcely hold the paper. “ It ’s about you,” she faltered, 
making one more desperate effort at self-preservation. 

He says you ’d stay if you could ; that they almost 
drove you home. And he asks that I be kind to yofu, 
because there are not many to care for you — and — 
and — ” 

“ Oh, Lord I never can get even with that Zeb Jarvis,” 
groaned Ezra. “ But you need n’t tell me that ’s all the 
letter ’s about.” 

Her eyes were full of tears, yet not so full but that she 
saw the plain, closing words in all their significance. 
Swiftly the letter went to her lips, then was thrust into 
her bosom, and she seized the cobbler’s hand, exclaim 



“A Letter to me!” cried the Girl, spkinging up. 


Taken Alive 


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SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS. 


305 


ing, “ Yes, I will ! I will ! You shall stay with us and 
be one of us ! ” and in her excitement she put her left 
hand caressingly on his shoulder. 

Susan / ” exclaimed Mrs. Rolliffe, who entered at that 
moment, and looked aghast at the scene. 

“Yes, I will exclaimed Susie, too wrought up now 
for restraint. 

“Will what? ” gasped the mother. 

“ Be Zebulon Jarvis’s wife. He ’s asked me plump and 
square, like a soldier ; and I ’ll answer as grandma did, 
and like grandma I ’ll face anything for his sake.” 

“ Well, this is suddent ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Rolliffe, drop- 
ping into a chair. “ Susan, do you think it is becoming 
and seemly for a young woman — ” 

“ Oh, mother dear, there ’s no use of your trying to make 
a prim Puritan maiden of me. Zeb does n’t fight 'like a 
deacon, and I can’t love like one. Ha ! ha ! ha ! to think 
that great soldier is afraid of little me, and nothing else ! 
It’s too funny and heavenly — ” 

“ Susan, I am dumbfounded at your behavior ! ” 

At this moment Mr. Rolliffe came in from the wood -lot, 
and he was dazed by the wonderful news also. In his 
eagerness to get even with Zeb, the cobbler enlarged and 
expatiated till he was hoarse. When he saw that the par- 
ents were almost as proud as the daughter over their pro- 
spective son-in-law, he relapsed into his old taciturnity, 
declaring he had talked enough for a month. 

Susie, the only child, who apparently had inherited all 
the fire and spirit of her fighting ancestors, darted out, and 
soon returned with her rosebud of a face enveloped in a 
great calyx of a woollen hood. 

“Where are you going?” exclaimed her parents. 

“You ’ve had the news. I guess Mother Jarvis has the 


20 


306 taken ALIVE : AND OTHER STORIES. 

next right.” And she was off over the hills with almost the 
lightness and swiftness of a snowbird. 

In due time Zeke appeared, and smiled encouragingly on 
Mrs. Rolliffe, who sat knitting by the kitchen fire. The 
matron did not rise, and gave him but a cool salutation. 
He discussed the coldness of the weather awkwardly for a 
few moments, and then ventured, “ Is Miss Susan at 
home? ” 

“ No, sir,” replied Mrs. Rolliffe ; she ’s gone to make a 
visit to her mother-in-law that is to be, the Widow Jarvis. 
Ezra Stokes is sittin’ in the next room, sent home sick. 
Perhaps you ’d like to talk over camp- life with him.” 

Not even the cider now sustained Zeke. He looked as 
if a cannon-ball had wrecked all his hopes and plans in- 
stead of a shovel. Good-evening, Mrs. Rolliffe,” he 
stammered; “I guess I’ll — I’ll — go home.” 

Poor Mrs. Jarvis had a spiritual conflict that day which 
she never forgot. Susie’s face had flashed at the window 
near which she had sat spinning, and sighing perhaps that 
Nature had not provided feathers or fur for a brood like 
hers ; then the girl’s arms were about her neck, the news 
was stammered out — for the letter could never be shown 
to any one — in a way that tore primness to tatters. The 
widow tried to act as if it were a dispensation of Provi- 
dence which should be received in solemn gratitude ; but 
before she knew it she was laughing and crying, kissing her 
sweet-faced daughter, or telling how good and brave Zeb 
had been when his heart was almost breaking. 

Compunction had already seized upon the widow. “ Su- 
san,” she began, I fear we are not mortifyin’ the flesh 
as we ought — ” 

“No mortifying just yet, if you please,” cried Susie. 
“ The most important thing of all is yet to be done. Zeb 


SUSIE ROLLIFFE’S CHRISTMAS. 30 / 

has n’t heard the news ; just think of it ! You must write 
and tell him that I ’ll help you spin the children’s clothes 
and work the farm ; that we ’ll face everything in Opinquake 
as long as Old Put needs men. Where is the ink-horn? 
I ’ll sharpen a pen for you and one for me, and such news 
as he ’ll get ! Wish I could tell him, though, and see the 
great fellow tremble once more. Afraid of me ! Ha ! ha ! 
ha ! that ’s the funniest thing — Why, Mother Jarvis, 
this is Christmas Day ! ” 

So it is,” said the widow, in an awed tone. “ Susie, 
my heart misgives me that all this should have happened 
on a day of which Popery has made so much.” 

“ No, no,” cried the girl. Thank God it is Christmas ! 
and hereafter I shall keep Christmas as long as love is love 
and God is good.” 


JEFF’S TREASURE. 


CHAPTER 1. 

ITS DISCOVERY. 

J EFF, the hero of my tale, was as truly a part of the 
Southern Confederacy as the greater Jeff at Richmond. 
Indeed, were it not for the humbler Jeff and the class he 
represented, the other Jeff would never have attained his 
eminence. 

Jeffs prospects were as dark as himself. He owned 
nothing, not even himself, yet his dream of riches is the 
motive of my tale. Regarded as a chattel, for whom a bill 
of sale would have been made as readily as for a bullock, 
he proved himself a man and brother by a prompt exhi- 
bition of traits too common to human nature when chance 
and some heroism on his part gave into his hands the 
semblance of a fortune. 

Jeff was a native Virginian and belonged to an F. F. V. 
in a certain practical, legal sense which thus far had not 
greatly disturbed his equanimity. His solid physique and 
full shining face showed that slavery had brought no horrors 
into his experience. He had indulged, it is true, in vague 
yearnings for freedom, but these had been checked by hear- 
ing that liberty meant working for Yankees,” — appalling 


JEFF'S TREASURE. 


509 


news to his indolent soul. He was house-servant and man- 
of-all-work in a family whose means had always been limited, 
and whose men were in the Confederate army. His “ missus ” 
evinced a sort of weary content when he had been scolded 
or threatened into the completion of his tasks by nightfall. 
He then gave her and her daughters some compensation 
for their trials with him by producing his fiddle and making 
the warm summer evening resonant with a kind of music 
which the negro only can evoke. Jeff was an artist, and had 
a complacent consciousness of the fact. He was a living 
instance of the truth that artists are born, not made. No 
knowledge of this gifted class had ever suggested kinship ; 
he did not even know what the word meant, but when his 
cheek rested lovingly against his violin he felt that he was 
made of different clay from other “ niggahs.” During the 
day he indulged in moods by the divine right and impulse 
of genius, imitating his gifted brothers unconsciously. In 
waiting on the table, washing dishes, and hoeing the garden, 
he was as great a laggard as Pegasus would have been if 
compelled to the labors of a cart-horse ; but when night 
came, and uncongenial toil was over, his soul expanded. His 
corrugated brow unwrinkled itself; his great black fingers 
flew back and forth over the strings as if driven by elec- 
tricity ; and electric in effect were the sounds produced by 
his swiftly glancing bow. • 

While the spirit of music so filled his heart that he could 
play to the moon and silent stars, an audience inspired him 
with tenfold power, especially if the floor was cleared or a 
smooth sward selected for a dance. Rarely did he play 
long before all who could trip a measure were on their feet, 
while even the superannuated nodded and kept time, sighing 
that they were old. His services naturally came into great 
demand, and he was catholic in granting them, — his mis- 


310 TAKEN ALIVE. AND OTHER STORIES. 

tress in good-natured tolerance acceding to requests which 
promised many forgetful hours at a time when the land was 
shadowed by war. So it happened that Jeff was often at 
the more pretending residences of the neighborhood, some- 
times fiddling in the detached kitchen of a Southern man- 
sion to the shuffle of heavy feet, again in the lighted parlor, 
especially when Confederate troops were quartered near. 
It was then that his strains took on their most inspiring and 
elevated character. He gave wings to the dark-eyed South- 
ern girls ; their feet scarcely touched the floor as they 
whirled with their cavaliers in gray, or threaded the mazes 
of the cotillon then and there in vogue. 

Nor did he disdain an invitation to a cross-road’s tavern, 
frequented by poor whites and enlisted men, or when the 
nights were warm, to a moonlit sward, on which he would 
invite his audience to a reel which left all breathless. While 
there wa^ a rollicking element in the strains of his fiddle 
which a deacon could not resist, he, with the intuition of 
genius, adapted himself to the class before him. In the 
parlor, he called off the figures of a quadrille with a “ by- 
yer-leave-sah ” air, selecting as a rule, the highest class of 
music that had blessed his ears, for he was ear-taught only. 
He would hold a half-washed dish suspended minutes at a 
time while listening to one “ ob. de young missys at de 
pianny. Daft ’s de way I ’se pick up my most scrumptious 
pieces. Dey cyant play nuffin in de daytime dat I cyant 
’prove on in de ebenin’ ; ” and his vanity did not lead him 
much astray. But when with those of his own color, or 
with the humbler classes, he gave them the musical vernacu- 
lar of the region, — rude, traditional quicksteps and songs, 
strung together with such variations of his own as made 
him the envy and despair of all other fiddlers in the vicinity. 
Indeed, he could rarely get away from a great house without 


JEFFS TREASURE. 


31I 

a sample of his powers in this direction, and then blend- 
ing with the rhythmical cadence of feet, the rustle of gar- 
ments, would be evoked ripples of mirth and bursts of 
laughter that were echoed back from the dim pine-groves 
without. Finally, when with his great foot beating time on 
the floor and every muscle of his body in motion, he ended 
with an original arrangement of “ Dixie,” the eyes of the 
gentlest maiden would flash as she joined the chorus of 
the men in gray, who were scarcely less excited for the 
moment than they would have been in a headlong cavalry 
charge. 

These were moments of glory for Jeff. In fact, on all 
similar occasions he had a consciousness of his power ; he 
made the slave forget his bondage, the poor whites their 
poverty, maidens the absence of their fathers, brothers, and 
lovers, and the soldier the chances against his return. 

At last there came a summer day when other music than 
that of Jeff’s fiddle resounded through that region. Two 
armies met and grappled through the long sultry hours. 
Every moment death-wounds were given and received, for 
thick as insects in woods, grove, and thicket, bullets whizzed 
on their fatal mission ; while from every eminence the de- 
moniacal shells shrieked in exultation over the havoc they 
wrought. 

Jeff’s home was on the edge of the battle-field, and as he 
trembled in the darkest comer of the cellar, he thought, 

Dis yer beats all de thunder-gusts I eber heered crack, run 
togedder in one big hurricane.” 

With the night came silence, except as it was broken by 
the groans and cries of wounded men ; and later the con- 
tending forces departed, having accorded to the fallen such 
poor burial as was given them when life was cheap and 
death the chief harvester in Virginia. 


312 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

For a day or two Jeffs conscience was active, and the 
memory of the resolutions inspired by the din of war gave 
to his thin visage a preternatural seriousness. Dishes were 
washed in such brief time and so thoroughly, and such havoc 
made in the garden-weeds that the world might make a note 
of Jeffs idea of reform (to its advantage). In the evening 
his fiddle wailed out psalm-tunes to the entire exclusion of 
its former carnal strains. 

It must be admitted, however, that Jeffs grace was like 
the early dew. On the third evening, “ Ole Dan Tucker ” 
slipped in among the hymns, and these were played in a 
time scarcely befitting their character. Then came a bit of 
news that awakened a wholly different train of thought and 
desire. A colored boy, more venturous than himself, was 
said to have picked up some “ Linkum ” money on the 
battle-field. This information shed on the wild wooded 
tract where the war trumpet had raged the most fiercely a 
light more golden than that of the moon then at its full ; 
and Jeff resolved that with the coming night he also would 
explore a region which, nevertheless, had nameless terrors 
for him. 

“ Ef dere ’s spooks anywhere dey ’s dereaway,” he mut- 
tered over his hoe ; but den, ki ! dey woan ’fere wid dis 
yer niggah. What hab I ’se got ter do wid de wah and de 
lighten an de jabbin’ ? De spooks cyant lay nufifin ter me 
eben ef ole marse an’ de res’ am a-fighten ter keep dere 
slabes, as folks say.” 

Having thus satisfied himself that the manes of the dead 
thousands could have no controversy with him, Jeff mus- 
tered sufficient resolution to visit the field that night. He 
took no one into his confidence, fearing if he discovered 
treasures of any kind he could not be left in undisturbed 
possession. During the day the rudiments of imagination 


rEFF'S IF E A SURE, 


313 

which made him a musician had been conjuring up the 
possible results of his expedition. 

De ting fer dis cullud pusson ter do is ter p’ramber 
late ter de Linkum lines. Ki ! I doan wan’ what drap outen 
our sogers’ pockets. I kin git Virginny-leaf widouten run- 
nin’ ’mong de spooks arter it. De place fer a big fine 
is whar de brush is tick and de Linkum men crawl away so 
dey woan be tromp on. Who knows but I kin fine a place 
whar a ginral hide hisself? Ob cose if he fiab a lot of gole 
he ’d stick it in de bush or kiver it right smart, so dat oders 
mout n’t get it foh he could helf hisself.” 

Jelf thought he had reasoned himself into such a valor- 
ous state that he could walk across the deserted battle-field 
with nonchalance ; but as he entered on a deeply-shadowed 
dirt-road long since disused to any extent, he found strange 
creeping sensations running up and down his back. The 
moonlight filtered through the leaves with fantastic elfects. 
A young silver poplar looked ghastly in the distance ; and 
now and then a tree cut off by a shot looked almost human 
in its mutilation. 

He had not gone very far before he saw what appeared 
to be the body of a man lying across the road. With a 
sudden chill of blood he stopped and stared at the object. 
Gradually it resolved itself into a low mound in the dim 
light. Approaching cautiously, he discovered with a dull 
sense of horror that a soldier had been buried where he 
had fallen, but covered so slightly that the tumulus scarcely 
more than outlined his form. 

“ Ob cose I knowed I ’d hab ter see dese tings foh I 
started. What I such a fool fer? De Feds nor de Yanks 
ain’ a-gwine ter bodder me if I ain’ steppin’ on ’em or ober 
’em.” And he went scrupulously on the other side of the 
road. 


314 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

By and by, however, he came to a part of the wood -lane 
where men had fallen by the score, and bodies had been 
covered in twos, threes, and dozens. His head felt as if 
his very wool were straightening itself out, as he wound 
here and there and zigzagged in all directions lest he 
should step on or over a grave. A breeze stirred the forest 
as if all the thousands buried in its shades had heaved a 
long deep sigh. With chattering teeth Jeff stopped to lis- 
ten, then, reassured, continued to pick his tortuous way. 
Suddenly there was an ominous rustling in a thicket just 
behind. He broke into a headlong flight across and over 
everything, when the startled grunt of a hog revealed the 
prosaic nature of this spook. Scarcely any other sound 
could have been more reassuring. The animal suggested 
bacon and hominy and hoe-cake, everything except the 
ghostly. He berated himself angrily : — 

“ Ki ! you niggah ! dat ar hog got mo’ co’age dan you. 
He know he hab nuffln mo’ ter do wid de spooks dan you 
hab. De run ain’ far, and when I gits ober dat de spooks 
on de side dis way cyant cross arter me ; ” and he hastened 
toward the spot where he supposed the Federals had been 
massed the most heavily, crossing an open field and splash- 
ing through a shallow place in the river, that their ghostships 
might be reminded of running water. 

On the farther slope were the same sad evidences of poor 
mortality, graves here and there and often all too shallow, 
broken muskets, bullet-perforated canteens and torn knap- 
sacks, — the debris of a pitched battle. Many trees and 
shrubs were so lacerated that their foliage hung limp and 
wilting, while boughs with shrivelled leaves strewed the 
ground. Nature’s wounds indicated that men had fought 
here and been mutilated as ruthlessly. 

For a time nothing of value rewarded JefTs search, and 


JEFF'S TREASURE. 


315 

he began to succumb to the gruesome associations of the 
place. At last he resolved to examine one more thicket 
that bordered an old rail-fence, and then make a long de- 
tour rather than go back by the graveyard road over which 
he had come. Pushing the bushes aside, he peered among 
their shadows for some moments, and then uttered an ex- 
clamation of surprise and terror as he bounded backward. 
There was no mistake this time ; he had seen the figure of 
a man with a ray of moonlight filtering through the leaves 
on a ghastly bullet-hole in his temple. He sat with his 
back against the fence, and had not moved after receiving 
the shock. At his feet, dropped evidently from his nerveless 
hand, lay a metal box. All had flashed almost instantane- 
ously on Jeff’s vision. 

For some moments he was in doubt whether to take to 
his heels homeward or reconnoitre again. The soldier sat 
in such a lifelike attitude that while Jeff knew the man 
must be dead, taking the box seemed like robbing the liv- 
ing. Yes, worse than that, for to the superstitious negro, 
the dead soldier appeared to be watching his treasure. 

JefPs cupidity slowly mastered his fears. Cautiously ap- 
proaching the figure, he again pushed aside the screening 
boughs, and with chattering teeth and trembling limbs, 
looked upon the silent guardian of the treasure, half ex- 
pecting the dead man to raise his head, and warn him off 
with a threatening gesture. Since the figure remained mo- 
tionless, Jeff made a headlong plunge, clutched the box, 
then ran half a mile without thinking to look back. 

Not for his life would he cross the battle-field again ; so it 
was late when by wide circuit he approached the dwelling 
of his mistress. His panic had gradually subsided, and as 
he noted familiar objects, he felt that he was beyond the 
proper range of the unjust spirits of the dead. 


3 i 6 taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


The soldier he had left sitting against the fence troubled 
him, it is true ; and he was not quite sure that he was 
through with one so palpably robbed. That he had not 
been followed appeared certain ; that the question of future 
ownership of the treasure could be settled was a matter of 
superstitious belief. There was only one way, — he must 
hide the box in a secret nook, and if it remained undis- 
turbed for a reasonable length of time, he might hope for 
its undisturbed enjoyment. Accordingly he stole into a 
dense copse and buried his booty at the foot of a persimmon- 
tree, then gained his humble quarter and slept so late and 
soundly that he had to be dragged almost without the door 
the next morning before he shook off his lethargy. 


CHAPTER II. 

ITS INFLUENCE. 

T X 7ITH the exception of aptitude which enabled Jeff to 
’ ’ catch and fix a tune in his mind with a fair degree 
of correctness, his mental processes were slow. Moreover, 
whether he should ever have any trouble with spooks ” or 
not, one thing was true of him, as of many others in all sta- 
tions of life, he was haunted by the ghost of a conscience. 
This uneasy spirit suggested to him with annoying iteration 
that his proceedings the night before had been of very un- 
usual and doubtful character. When at last fully awake, he 
sought to appease the accusing voice by unwonted diligence 
in all his tasks, until the fat cook, a devout Baptist, took 
more than one occasion to say, “ You ’se in a promisin’ frame, 
Jeff. Ef I ’se ony shoah dat yer hole out long anuff ter get 


JEFF'S TREASURE. 


317 

’mersed, I ’d hab hopes on yer, but, law ! yer ’ll be a-fiddlin’ 
de debil’s tunes ’fo’ de week is out. I ’se afeared dat dere 
must be an awful prov’dence, like a battle or harricane, onst 
a week, ter keep yer ser’ous ; ” and the old woman sniffed 
down at him with ill-concealed disdain from her superior 
spiritual height. 

Jeff was as serious as could have been wished all that day, 
for there was much on his mind. Perplexing questions 
tinged with supernatural terrors tormented him. Passing 
over those having a moral point, the most urgent one was, 
“ S’pose dat ar soger miss him box an’ come arter it ter- 
night. Ki ! If I go ter see, I mout run right on ter de 
spook. I ’se a-gwine ter gib ’im his chance, an’ den take 
mine.” So that evening Jeff fortified himself and increased 
the cook’s hope by a succession of psalm-tunes in which 
there was no lapse toward the “ debil’s ” music. 

Next morning, after a long sleep, Jeff’s nerves were 
stronger, and he began to take a high hand with conscience. 

Dat ar soger has hab his chance,” he reasoned. “ Ef 
he want de box he mus’ ’a’ com arter it las’ night. I ’se 
done bin fa’r wid him, an’ now ter-night, ef dat ar box ain’ 
’sturbed, I ’se a gwine ter see de ’scription an’ heft on it. 
Toder night I was so ’fuscated dat I could n’t know nuffin 
straight.” 

When all were sleeping, he stole to the persimmon-tree and 
was elated to find his treasure where he had slightly buried 
it. The little box seemed heavy, and was wholly unlike 
anything he had ever seen before. 

Ob cose it ’s got money in it,” Jeff reasoned. “ Nuffin 
else ’ud be done up so tight and strong. I ’se woan open it 
jes’ yet, feared de missus or de colored boys ’spec’ some- 
ting. Ki ! I is n’t a-gwine ter be tied up, an’ hab dat box 
whip out in me. I ’ll tink how I kin hide an’ spen’ de money 


3 i 8 TAJ^EN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

kine of slowcution like.” With this he restored the prize 
to its shallow excavation and covered it with leaves that 
no trace of fresh earth might be visible. 

Jeff’s deportment now began to evince a new evolution in 
mental and moral process. The influence of riches was 
quite as marked upon him as upon so many of his white 
brothers and sisters, proving their essential kinship. To-day 
he began to sniff disdainfully at his menial tasks ; and in the 
evening “Ole Dan Tucker” resounded from his fiddle with 
a rollicking abandon over which the cook groaned in de- 
spair, “ Dat ar niggah’s ’ligion drop off ob ’im like a yaller 
pig from de bush. ’I.igion dat ’s skeert inter us hain’t no 
’count anyhow.” 

During the next few days it was evident that Jeff was fall- 
ing from grace rapidly. Never had he been so slow and 
careless in his tasks. More than once the thought crossed 
his mind that he had better take his box and “ cut stick” 
for Washington, where he believed that wealth and his fiddle 
would give him prominence over his race. For prudential 
and other reasons he was in no haste to open the box, pre- 
ferring rather to gloat over it and to think how he could 
spend the money to the greatest advantage. He had been 
paying his court to a girl as black as himself on a neigh- 
boring plantation ; but he now regarded that affair as 
preposterous. 

“ She ain’ good nuff fer me no mo’,” he reasoned. “ I ’se 
a-gwine ter shine up ter dat yaller Suky dat ’s been a-holdin’ 
her head so high ober ter Marse Perkins’s. I ’se invited ter 
play ober dar ter-night, an’ I ’ll make dat gal open her eye. 
Ki ! she tinks no culled gemmen in dese parts fit ter hole a 
cannle when she braid her long straight ha’r, but when she 
see de ribbin I kin git her ter tie dat ha’r up wid, an’ de 
earrings I kin put in her ears, she larf on toder side ob her 


JEFF'S TREASURE. 


319 


face. ’Fo’ I go I ’se a-gwine ter buy dat ar gole ring ob Sam 
Milkins down at de tavern. S’pose it does take all I ’se 
been sabin’ up, I ’se need n’t sabe any mo’. Dat ar box 
got nuff in it ter keep me like a lawd de rest ob my life. 
I ’d open it ter-night if I was n’t goin’ ter Marse Perkins’s.” 

Jeff carried out his high-handed measures and appeared 
that evening at “ Marse Perkins’s ” with a ring of portentous 
size squeezed on the little finger of his left hand. It had 
something of the color of gold, and that is the best that can 
be said of it ; but it had left its purchaser penniless. This 
fact sat lightly on Jeffs mind, however, as he remembered 
the box at the foot of the persimmon-tree ; and he stalked 
into the detached kitchen, where a dusky assemblage were 
to indulge in a shuffle, with the air of one who intends that 
his superiority shall be recognized at once. 

Law sakes, Jeff!” said Mandy, his hitherto ebon flame, 

yer comes in like a turkey gobbler. Does n’t yer know 
me?” 

“ Sartin I know yer, Mandy. You ’se a good gal in 
you ’se way, but, law ! you ’se had yer spell. A culled 
gemmen kin change his min’ when he sees dat de ’finity ’s 
done gone.” 

“ Look here, Jeff Wobbles, does yer mean ter give’ me de 
sack?” 

‘‘ I mean ter gib yer good-ebenin’. Miss Mandy Munson. 
Yer cyant ’spec’ a gemmen to be degaged in de music 
an’ a gal at de same time,” replied Jeff, with oppressive 
gravity. 

‘‘ Mister Johnsing, I ’se tank yer fo’ yer arm,” said Mandy 
to a man near, with responsive dignity. “Yer wait on me 
here, an’ yer kin wait on me home. I ’se ’shamed on my- 
sef dat I took up wid a lout dat kin do nuffin but fiddle ; 
but I was kine ob sorry fer him, he sich a fool.” 


320 


TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


'‘Go ’long,” remarked Jeff, smiling mysteriously. '' Ef 
yer knowed, yer ’ud be wringin’ yer ban’s wuss dan yer did 
at de las’ ’tracted meetin’. Ah, Miss Siiky, dat you?” 
and Jeff for the first time doffed his hat. 

“ W’at ’s in de win’, Jeff, dat yer so scrumptious an’ bump- 
tious like dis ebenin’ ? ” Suky asked a trifle scornfully. 

“ W’en de ’freshments parse ’roun’, I ’se ’steem it a obler- 
gation ter me ef yer ’ll let me bring yer de cake an’ cider. 

I ’se sumpin fer yer. Gemmen an’ ladies, took yer places,” 
he added in a stentorian voice ; “ I ax yer ’sideration fer 
bein’ late, cose I had ’portant business; now, 

“ Bow dar, scrape dar ; 

Doan hang about de doah. 

Shine up ter de pretty gals, 

An’ lead ’em on de floah, ” — 

his fiddle seconding his exhortation with such inciting 
strains that soon there was not a foot but was keeping 
time. 

Suky observed that the musician had eyes for her only, 
and that toward all others he maintained his depressing 
superiority. In vain did Mandy lavish tokens of favor on 
“Mister Johnsing.” Jeff did not lose his sudden and un- 
expected indifference ; while the great ring glistening on his 
finger added to the mystery. There were many whispered 
surmises ; but gradually the conjecture that he had “ foun’ 
a heap ob Linkum money ” was regarded as the best ex- 
planation of the marked change in his bearing. 

Curiosity soon became more potent than Jeffs fiddle, 
and the “ ’freshments ” were hurried up. So far from re- 
senting this, Jeff put his violin under his arm and stalked 
across the improvised ball-room to Miss Suky, oblivious of 
the fact that she had a suitor on either side. 

“ Gemmen,” he remarked with condescension, “ dis lady 


JEFF'S TREASURE. 


321 


am degaged ter me durin’ de ^ ’freshments period,’ ” and he 
held out his arm in such a way that the massive ring glit- 
tered almost under Suky’s nose. The magnet drew. His 
arm was taken in spite of the protests of the enamoured 
swains. 

Permit me de suggestation,” continued Jeff, *Mat ter a 
lady ob yer ’finement, dis place am not fit ter breve in. 
Wha’s mo’, I doan ’dine ter hab dese yer common niggahs 
a-whispirin’ an’ a-pintin’ an’ a-’jecturin’ about us. Lemme 
get yer a seat under de lite ob de risin’ moon. De dusk ’ll 
obscurate yer loveleness so I ’se dar’ tell all de news.” 

Suky, mystified and expectant, but complacent over an- 
other conquest, made no objections to these whispered 

suggestations,” and was led to a seat under the shadow 
of a tree. A chorus of not very flattering remarks broke 
out, ceasing as suddenly when Jeff returned for a portion 
of the cake and cider. 

“ Mister Wobbles, yer ’s prettin’ on high de airs ter-night,” 
Suky remarked, with an interrogation point in her voice. 

Here ’s ter de health ob Mrs. Wobbles,” he answered, 
lifting the cider to his lips. 

^‘I’se no ’jections ter dat. Who is she ter be?” re- 
plied Suky, very innocently. 

It ’s not my ’tention ter go furder and far’ wuss. Dis 
am a case wha de presen’ company am not ’cepted.” 

^^No, not axcepted jes’ yet, Mr. Wobbles, if yer’se 
’dressin’ yer remarks ter me. Yer is goin’ on jes’ a little 
too far.” 

P’raps a little far; but yer ’ll soon catch up wid me. 
Yer’se a lady dat got a min’ ob her own, I hope?” 

It ’s mine yet, anyhow.” 

An’ yer kin keep as mum as a possum w’en de cawn is 
in de milk? ” 


21 


322 


TAKEN ALIVE: AJVD OTHER STORIES. 


Dat ’pends.” 

“ Ob cose it does. But I ’ll tnis’ yer ; yer ain’ de one ter 
bite yer own nose off. Does yer see dat ar ring, Suky? 
Law ! how pretty dat look on yer degaged finger ! ” 

’T ain’ dar yet.” 

“ Lemme put it dar. Ki ! would n’t dey look an’ gape 
an’ pint in dar yonder w’en yer come a-sailin’ in wid dat 
ring on ? ” 

“Yes; dey tink me a big fool ter be captivated by a 
ring, — brass, too, like anuff.” 

“No, Suky, it’s gole, — yallow gole, di ’plexion ob yer 
own fair han’. But, law ! dis ain’ nuffin ter what I ’se ’ll 
git yer. Yer ’se shall hab rings an’ dresses an’ jules till yer 
’stinguish de oder gals like de sun put out de stars.” 

“What yer foun’, Jeff Wobbles? ” 

“ I ’se foun’ what ’ll make yer a lady if yer hab sense. 
I ’se gib yer de compliment ob s’lecting yer ter shar’ 
my fine if yer ’ll lemme put dis ring on yer degaged 
finger.” 

“Yer doan say nuffin ’bout lub in dis yer ’rangement,” 
Suky simpered, sidling up to him. 

“ Oh, dat kind ob sent’ment ’ll do fer common nig- 
gahs,” Jeff explained with dignity. “ I ’se hurd my missus 
talk ’bout ’liances ’twixt people of quality. Ki ! Suky, I ’se 
in a ’sition now ter make a ’liance wid yer. Yer ain’ like 
dat low gal, Mandy. What Mister Johnsing ebber hab ter 
gib her but a lickin’ some day? I ’se done wid dat com- 
mon class ; I may fiddle fur ’em now an’ den, jes’ ter see 
dem sport deysefs, while I ’se lookin’ on kin’ ob s’periur 
like, yer know. But den, dey ain’ our kin’ ob folks. Yer ’se 
got qulities dat ’ll shine like de risin’ moon dar.” Then- in 
a whisper he added, “ De Linkum sogers is off dar ter the 
east’erd. One night’s trabel an’ dey’d sen’ us on ter 


JEFF'S TREASURE. 


323 

Washin’on. Onst yer git dar, an’ hab all de jules an’ 
dresses dat I gib yer, dar ’s not a culled gemmen dereaway 
but 'ud bow down ter yer.” 

Here was a dazzling vista that Suky could not resist. 
Her ideas of freedom, like those of Jeff, were not very 
exalted. At that period, slave property in the vicinity of 
the Union lines was fast melting away ; and scarcely a night 
elapsed but some one was missing, the more adventurous 
and intelligent escaping first, and others following as op- 
portunity and motive pointed the way. The region under 
consideration had not yet been occupied by the Federals, 
and there was still no slight risk involved in flight. Suky 
did not realize the magnitude of the project. She was not 
the first of her sex to be persuaded by a cavalier and prom- 
ised gold to take a leap into the dark. 

As a result of Jeffs representations the “ ’liance ” was 
made there and then, secrecy promised, and an escape to 
Washington agreed upon as soon as circumstances per- 
mitted, — Suky’s mind, I regret to say, dwelling more on 

gemmen bowing down ” to her than on the devotion of 
the allied suitor. 

No lady of rank in Timbuctoo could have sailed into the 
kitchen ball-room with greater state than Suky now after the 
compact had been made, Jeff supporting her on his arm 
with the conscious air of one who has taken the prize 
from all competitors. With the assurance of a potentate 
he ensconced himself in the orchestra corner and called 
the dancers to their feet. 

But the spirit of mutiny was present. Eager eyes noted 
that the ring on his bow-hand was gone. Then it was seen 
glistening on Suky’s hand as she ostentatiously fanned her- 
self. The clamor broke out, Mister Johnsing,” incited by 
Mandy and the two swains between whom Suky had been 


324 TAKEN ALIFE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

sandwiched, leading the revolt against Jeffs arrogance and 
success. 

There were many, however, who had no personal wrongs 
to right, and who did not relish being made a cat’s paw by 
the disaffected. These were bent on the natural progression 
and conclusion of the dance. In consequence of the 
wordy uproar the master of the premises appeared and 
cleared them all out, sending his own servants to their 
quarters. 

Jeff nearly came to grief that night, for a party of the 
malcontents followed him on his homeward walk. Suspect- 
ing their purpose, he dodged behind some shrubbery, 
heard their threats to break his head and smash his fiddle, 
and then went back to a tryst with Suky. 

That sagacious damsel had been meditating on the pro- 
posed alliance. Even in her rather sophisticated mind she 
had regarded a semblance of love as essential ; but since 
Jeff had put everything on such superior grounds, she felt 
that she should prove herself fit for new and exalted con- 
ditions of life by seeing to it that he made good all his 
remarkable promises. She remembered that he had not 
yet opened the box of money, and became a little scep- 
tical as to its contents. Somebody might have watched 
Jeff, and have carried it off. 

True, she had the ring, but that was not the price of her 
hand. Nothing less than had been promised would answer 
now; and when she stole out to meet Jeff she told him so. 
Under the witching moonlight he began to manifest ten- 
dencies to sentiment and tenderness. Her response was 
prompt : “ Go ’long ! what dese common niggah ways got 
ter do wid a ’liance? Yer show me de gole in dat box, — 
dat’s de bargain. Den de ’liance hole me fas’, an’ I ’ll help 
yer spen’ de money in Washin’on. We ’ll hab a weddin’ 


JEFF'S TREASURE. 


325 


scrumptious as white folks. But, law sakes ! Jeff Wobbles, 
’t ain’ no kin’ ob ’liance till I see dat gole an’ hab some ob 
it too ! ” 

Jeff had to succumb like many a higher-born suitor be- 
fore him, with the added chagrin of remembering that he 
had first suggested the purely business-like aspect of his 
motive. 

Berry well ; meet me here ter-morrer night when I 
whistle like a whip-o’-will. But yer ain’ so smart as yer 
tink yer are, Suky. Yer ’se made it cl’ar ter me dat I ’se 
got ter keep de han’lin’ ob dat gole or you ’ll be a-carryin’ 
dis ’liance business too far ! If I gib yer gole, I expec’ yer 
ter shine up an be ’greeable-like ter me ebbery way yer 
know how. Dat ’s only fa’r, doggoned ef it ain’ ! ” and 
Jeff spoke in a very aggrieved tone. 

Wily Suky chucked him under the chin, saying, “ Show 
me de color ob de gole an’ de ’liance come out all right.” 
Then she retired, believing that negotiations had proceeded 
far enough for the present. 

Jeff went home feeling that he had been forewarned and 
forearmed. Since her heart responded to a golden key 
only, he would keep that key and use it judiciously. 

During the early hours of the following night Jeff was 
very wary and soon discovered that he was watched. He 
coolly slipped the collar from a savage dog, and soon there 
was a stampede from a neighboring grove. An hour after, 
when all had become quiet again, he took the dog and 
armed with an axe, started out, fully resolved on breaking 
the treasure-box which he had been hoarding. 

The late moon had risen, giving to Jeff a gnome- like 
aspect as he dug at the root of the persimmon-tree. The 
mysterious box soon gleamed with a pale light in his hand, 
like the leaden casket that contained Portia’s radiant face. 


326 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

Surely, when he struck the open, sesame ” blow, that 
beauty which captivates young and old alike would dazzle 
his eyes. With heart now devoid of all compunction, and 
exultant in anticipation, he struck the box, shaving off the 
end he held farthest from him. An ancient fish-like 
smell” filled the air; Jeff sank on the ground and stared at 
sardines and rancid oil dropping instead of golden dollars 
from his treasure-box. They scarcely touched the ground 
before the dog snapped them all up. 

The bewildered negro knew not what to think. Had 
fish been the original contents of the box ; or had the 
soldier’s spook transformed the gold into this horrid mess? 
One thing, however, was clear, — he had lost, not only Suky, 
but prestige. The yellow girl would scorn him, and, tell 
of his preposterous promises. Mandy had been offended 
beyond hope, and he would become the laughing-stock 
and byword of all the colored boys for miles around. 

Dar ’s nuffin lef fer me but ter put out fer freedom,” 
he soliloquized ; “ ki ! I ’se a-gwine ter git eben wid dat 
yallar gal yet. I ’ll cut stick ter-morrer night and she ’ll 
tink I ’sconded alone, totin’ de box wid me, and dat she 
was too sharp in dat ’liance business.” 

So it turned out; Jeff and his fiddle vanished, leaving 
nothing to sustain Suky under the gibes of her associates 
except the ring, which she eventually learned was as brazen 
as her own ambition. 

Jeff wandered into the service of a Union officer whose 
patience he tried even more than that of his tolerant 
Southern mistress ; but when by the camp-fire he brought 
out his violin, all his shortcomings were condoned. 


CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE. 


HE August morning was bright and fair, but Herbert 



Scofield’s brow was clouded. He had wandered off 
to a remote part of the grounds of a summer hotel on the 
Hudson, and seated in the shade of a tree, had lapsed into 
such deep thought that his cigar had gone out and the 
birds were becoming bold in the vicinity of his motionless 


figure. 


It was his vacation-time and he had come to the country 
ostensibly for rest. As the result, he found himself in the 
worst state of unrest that he had ever known. Minnie 
Madison, a young lady he had long admired, was the mag- 
net that had drawn him hither. Her arrival had preceded 
his by several weeks ; and she had smiled a little con- 
sciously when in looking at the hotel register late one after- 
noon his bold chirography met her eye. 

“ There are so many other places to which he might have 
gone,” she murmured. 

Her smile, however, was a doubtful one, not expressive of 
gladness and entire satisfaction. In mirthful saucy fashion 
her thoughts ran on, “ The time has come when he might 
have a respite from business. Does he still mean business 
by coming here ? I ’m not sure that I do, although the popu- 
lar idea seems to be that a girl should have no vacation in 


328 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

the daily effort to find a husband. I continually disappoint 
the good people by insisting that the husband must find 
me. I have a presentiment that Mr. Scofield is looking for 
me ; but there are some kinds of property which cannot be 
picked up and carried off, nolens volens^ when found.” 

Scofield had been animated by no such clearly-defined 
purpose as he was credited with when he sought the summer 
resort graced by Miss Madison. His action seemed to him 
tentative, his motive ill-defined even in his own conscious- 
ness, yet it had been strong enough to prevent any hesi- 
tancy. He knew he was weary from a long year’s work. 
He purposed to rest and take life very leisurely, and he had 
mentally congratulated himself that he was doing a wise 
thing in securing proximity to Miss Madison. She had 
evoked his admiration in New York, excited more than a 
passing interest, but he felt that he did not know her very 
well. In the unconventional life now in prospect he could 
see her daily and permit his interest to be dissipated or 
deepened, as the case might be, while he remained, in the 
strictest sense of the word, uncommitted. It was a very 
prudent scheme and not a bad one. He reasoned justly, 
“ This selecting a wife is no bagatelle. A man wishes to 
know something more about a woman than he can learn 
in a drawing-room or at a theatre party.” 

But now he was in trouble. He had been unable to 
maintain this judicial aspect. He had been made to un- 
derstand at the outset that Miss Madison did not regard 
herself as a proper subject for deliberate investigation, and 
that she was not inclined to aid in his researches. So far 
from meeting him with engaging frankness and revealing her 
innermost soul for his inspection, he found her as elusive as 
only a woman of tact can be when so minded, even at a 
place where people meet daily. It was plain to him from 


CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE. 


329 

the first that he was not the only man who favored her with 
admiring glances ; and he soon discovered that young Merri- 
weather and his friend Hackley had passed beyond the neu- 
tral ground of non-committal. He set himself the task of 
learning how far these suitors had progressed in her good 
graces ; he would not be guilty of the folly of giving chase 
to a prize already virtually captured. This too had proved 
a failure. Clearly, would he know what Mr. Merriweather 
and Mr. Hackley were to Miss Madison he must acquire the 
power of mind reading. Each certainly appeared to be a 
very good friend of hers, — a much better friend than he 
could claim to be, for in his case she maintained a certain 
unapproachableness which perplexed and nettled him. 

After a week of rest, observation, and rather futile effort 
to secure a reasonable share of Miss Madison’s society and 
attention, he became assured that he was making no pro- 
gress whatever so far as she was concerned, but very de- 
cided progress in a condition of mind and heart anything 
but agreeable should the affair continue so one-sided. He 
had hoped to see her daily, and was not disappointed. He 
had intended to permit his mind to receive such impres- 
sions as he should choose ; and now his mind asked no per- 
mission whatever, but without volition occupied itself with 
her image perpetually. He was not sure whether she satis- 
fied his preconceived ideals of what a wife should be or 
not, for she maintained such a firm reticence in regard to 
herself that he could put his finger on no affinities. She 
left no doubt as to her intelligence, but beyond that she 
would not reveal herself to him. He was almost satisfied 
that she discouraged him utterly and that it would be wiser 
to depart before his feelings became more deeply involved. 
At any rate he had better do this or else make love in dead 
earnest. Which course should he adopt ? 


330 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

There came a day which brought him to a decision. 

A party had been made up for an excursion into the 
Highlands, Miss Madison being one of the number. She 
was a good pedestrian and rarely missed a chance for a 
ramble among the hills. Scofield’s two rivals occasionally 
got astray with her in the perplexing wood-roads, but he 
never succeeded in securing such good fortune. On this 
occasion, as they approached a woodchopper’s cottage (or 
rather, hovel) , there were sounds of acute distress within, — 
the piercing cries of a child evidently in great pain. There 
was a moment of hesitancy in the party, and then Miss 
Madison’s graceful indifference vanished utterly. As she 
ran hastily to the cabin, Scofield felt that now probably was 
a chance for more than mere observation, and he kept be- 
side her. An ugly cur sought to bar entrance ; but his vig- 
orous kick sent it howling away. She gave him a quick 
pleased look as they entered. A slatternly woman was try- 
ing to soothe a little boy, who at all her attempts only 
writhed and shrieked the more. “ I dunno what ails the 
young one,” she said. “ I found him a moment ago yellin’ 
at the foot of a tree. Suthin ’s the matter with his leg.” 

“Yes,” cried Miss Madison, delicately feeling of the 
member, — an operation which, even under her gentle 
touch, caused increased outcry, “it is evidently broken. 
Let me take him on my lap ; ” and Scofield saw that her 
face had softened into the tenderest pity. 

“ I will bring a surgeon at the earliest possible moment,” 
exclaimed Scofield, turning to go. 

Again she gave him an approving glance which warmed 
his heart. “ The ice is broken between us now,” he thought, 
as he broke through the group gathering at the open door. 

Never before had he made such time down a mountain, 
for he had a certain kind of consciousness that he was not 


CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE. 


331 

only going after the doctor, but also after the girl. Securing 
a stout horse and wagon at the hotel, he drove furiously for 
the surgeon, explained the urgency, and then, with the rural 
healer at his side, almost killed the horse in returning. 

He found his two rivals at the cabin door, the rest of the 
party having gone on. Miss Madison came out quickly. 
An evanescent smile flitted across her face as she saw his 
kindled eyes and the reeking horse, which stood trembling 
and with bowed head. His ardor was a little dampened 
when she went directly to the poor beast and said, “ This 
horse is a rather severe indictment against you, Mr. Sco- 
field. There was need of haste, but — ” and she paused 
significantly. • 

“Yes,” added the doctor, springing out, “I never saw 
such driving ! It ’s lucky our necks are not broken.” 

“ You are all right. Doctor, and ready for your work,” 
Scofield remarked brusquely. “ As for the horse, I ’ll soon 
bring him around ; ” and he rapidly began to unhitch the 
over-driven animal. 

“What are you going to do?” Miss Madison asked 
curiously. 

“ Rub him into as good shape as when he started.” 

She turned away to hide a smile as she thought, “ He has 
waked up at last.” 

The boy was rendered unconscious, and his leg speedily 
put in the way of restoration. “ He will do very well now 
if my directions are carried out strictly,” the physician 
was saying when Scofield entered. 

Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley stood rather helplessly 
in the background and were evidently giving more thought 
to the fair nurse than to the patient. The mother was alter- 
nating between lamentations and invocations of good on the 
“ young leddy’s ” head. Finding that he would come in for 


332 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

a share of the latter, Scofield retreated again. Miss Madison 
walked quietly out, and looking critically at the horse, re- 
marked, “ You have kept your word very well, Mr. Scofield. 
The poor creature does look much improved.” She evi- 
dently intended to continue her walk with the two men in 
waiting, for she said demurely with an air of dismissal, “ You 
will have the happy consciousness of having done a good 
deed this morning.” 

“ Yes,” replied Scofield, in significant undertone ; you, 
of all others. Miss Madison, know how inordinately happy 
I shall be in riding back to the village with the doctor.” 

She raised her eyebrows in a little well-feigned surprise at 
his words, then turned away. 

During the remainder of the day he was unable to see 
her alone for a moment, or to obtain any further reason to 
believe that the ice was in reality broken between them. 
But his course was no longer noncommittal, even to the 
most careless observer. The other guests of the house 
smiled ; and Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley looked 
askance at one who threw their assiduous attentions 
quite into the shade. Miss Madison maintained her com- 
posure, was oblivious as far as possible, and sometimes 
when she could not appear blind, looked a little surprised 
and even offended. 

He had determined to cast prudence and circumlocution 
to the winds. On the morning following the episode in the 
mountains he was waiting to meet her when she came down 
to breakfast. “ I Ve seen that boy, Miss Madison, and he ’s 
doing well.” 

“What! so early? You are a very kind-hearted man, 
Mr. Scofield.” 

“ About as they average. That you are kind-hearted I 
know, — at least to every one except me, — for I saw your 


CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TJDE. 333 

expression as you examined the little fellow’s injury yester- 
day. You thought only of the child — ” 

“ I hope you did also, Mr. Scofield,” she replied with 
an exasperating look of surprise. 

You know well I did not,” he answered bluntly. “ I 
thought it would be wdl worth while to have my leg broken 
if you would look at me in the same way.” 

“ Truly, Mr. Scofield, I fear you are not as kind-hearted 
as I supposed you to be ; ” and then she turned to greet 
Mr. Merriweather. 

“Won’t you let me drive you up to see the boy?” 
interposed Scofield, boldly. 

“I’m sorry, but I promised to go up with the doctor this 
morning.” 

And so affairs went on. He thought at times her color 
quickened a little when he approached suddenly ; he fancied 
that he occasionally surprised a half-wistful, half-mirthful 
glance, but was not sure. He knew that she was as well 
aware of his intentions and wishes as if he had proclaimed 
them through a speaking-trumpet. His only assured ground 
of comfort was that neither Mr. Merriweather nor Mr. 
Hackley had yet won the coveted prize, though they evi- 
dently were receiving far greater opportunities to push their 
suit than he had been favored with. 

At last his vacation was virtually at an end. But two 
more days would elapse before he must be at his desk again 
in the city. And now we will go back to the time when we 
found him that early morning brooding over his prospects, 
remote from observation. What should he do, — propose 
by letter? “No,” he said after much cogitation. “I can 
see that little affected look of surprise with which she 
would read my plain declaration of what she knows so 
)vell. Shall I force a private interview with her? The 


334 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


very word ‘ force,’ which I have unconsciously used, teaches 
me the folly of this course. She does n’t care a rap for me, 
and I should have recognized the truth long ago. I ’ll go 
back to the hotel and act toward her precisely as she has 
acted toward me. I can then at least take back to town 
a little shred of dignity.” 

He appeared not to see her when she came down to 
breakfast. After the meal was over he sat on the piazza 
engrossed in the morning paper. An excursion party for 
the mountains was forming. He merely bowed politely as 
she passed him to join it, but he ground his teeth as he saw 
Merriweather and Hackley escorting her away. When they 
were out of sight he tossed the paper aside and went down 
to the river, purposing to row the fever out of his blood. 
He was already satisfied how difficult his tactics would be 
should he continue to see her, and he determined to be 
absent all day, to so tire himself out that exhaustion would 
bring early sleep on his return. 

Weary and leaden-spirited enough he was, as late in the 
afternoon he made his way back, but firm in sudden resolve 
to depart on an early train in the morning and never vol- 
untarily to see the obdurate lady of his affections again. 

Just as the sun was about sinking he approached a small 
wooded island about half a mile from the boat-house, and 
was surprised to notice a rowboat high and dry upon the 
beach. “Some one has forgotten that the tide is going 
out,” he thought, as he passed ; but it was no affair of his. 

A voice called faintly, “ Mr. Scofield ! ” 

He started at the familiar tones, and looked again. 
Surely that was Miss Madison standing by the prow of the 
stranded skiff ! He knew well indeed it was she ; and he 
put his boat about with an energy not in keeping with his 
former languid strokes. Then, recollecting himself, he 


CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE. 


335 


became pale with the self-control he purposed to maintain. 

She is in a scrape,” he thought ; “ and calls upon me as 
she would upon any one else to get her out of it.” 

Weariness and discouragement inclined him to be some- . 
what reckless and brusque in his words and manner. Under 
the compulsion of circumstances she who would never gra- 
ciously accord him opportunities must now be alone with 
him ; but as a gentleman, he could not take advantage of 
her helplessness, to plead his cause, and he felt a sort of 
rage that he should be mocked with an apparent chance 
which was in fact no chance at all. 

His boat stranded several yards from the shore. Throw- 
ing down his oars, he rose and faced her. Was it the last 
rays of the setting sun which made her face so rosy, or was 
it embarrassment? 

I ’m in a dilemma, Mr. Scofield,” Miss Madison began 
hesitatingly. 

^^And you would rather be in your boat,” he added. 

That would not help me any, seeing where my boat is. 

I have done such a stupid thing ! I stole away here to 
finish a book, and — well — I didn’t notice that the tide 
was running out. I ’m sure I don’t know what I ’m going 
to do.” 

Scofield put his shoulder to an oar and tried to push his 
craft to what deserved the name of shore, but could make 
little headway. He was glad to learn by the effort, however, 
that the black mud was not unfathomable in depth. Hastily 
reversing his action, he began pushing his boat back into 
the water. 

Surely, Mr. Scofield, you do not intend to leave me,” 
began Miss Madison. 

Surely not,” he replied ; “ but then, since you are so 
averse to my company, I must make sure that my boat 


336 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

does not become as fast as yours on this ebb-tide, otherwise 
we should both have to wait till the flood.” 

“ Oh, beg pardon ! I now understand. But how can 
you reach me?” 

‘‘Wade,” he replied coolly, proceeding to take off his 
shoes and stockings. 

“What ! through that horrid black mud? ” 

“ I could n’t leap that distance. Miss Madison.” 

“ It ’s too bad ! I ’m so provoked with myself ! The 
mud may be very deep, or there may be a quicksand or 
something.” 

“ In which case I should merely disappear a little earlier ; ” 
and he sprang overboard up to his knees, dragged the boat 
till it was sufficiently fast in the ooze to be stationary, 
then he waded ashore. 

“ Well,” she said with a little deprecatory laugh, “ it ’s 
a comfort not to be alone on a desert island.” 

“ Indeed ! Can I be welcome under any circumstances? ” 

“Truly, Mr. Scofield, you know that you were never more 
welcome. It ’s very kind of you.” 

“ Any man would be glad to come to your aid. It is 
merely your misfortune that I happen to be the one.” 

“I’m not sure that I regard it as a very great misfortune. 
You proved in the case of that little boy that you can act 
very energetically.” 

“ And get lectured for my intemperate zeal. Well, Miss 
Madison, I cannot make a very pleasing spectacle with 
blackamoor legs, and it ’s time I put my superfluous energy 
to some use. Suppose you get in your boat, and I ’ll try to 
push it off.” 

She complied with a troubled look in her face. He 
pushed till the veins knotted on his forehead. At this she 
sprang out, exclaiming, “You’ll burst a blood-vessel.” 


CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE. 


337 


“ That ’s only a phase of a ruptured heart, and you are 
used to such phenomena.” 

“ It ’s too bad for you to talk in that way,” she cried. 

It certainly is. I will now attend strictly to business.” 

“ I don’t see what you can do.” 

“ Carry you out to my boat, — that is all I can do.” 

Oh, Mr. Scofield ! ” 

**Can you suggest anything else?” 

She looked dubiously at the intervening black mud, and 
was silent. 

“ I could go up to the hotel and bring Mr. Merriweather 
and Mr. Hackley.” 

She turned away to hide her tears. 

“ Or I could go after a brawny boatman ; but delay is 
serious, for the tide is running out fast and the stretch of 
mud growing wider. Can you not imagine me Mike or 
Tim, or some fellow of that sort.” 

‘‘No, I can’t.” 

“Then perhaps you wish me to go for Mike or Tim?” 

“ But the tide is running out so fast, you said.” 

“Yes, and it will soon be dark.” 

“ Oh, dear ! ” and there was distress in her tones. 

He now said^kindly, “ Miss Madison, I wish that like Sir 
Walter Raleigh I had a mantle large enough for you to walk 
over. You can at least imagine that I am a gentleman, 
that you may soon be at the hotel, and no one ever be any 
the wiser that you had to choose between me and the deep 
— ah, well — mud.” 

“ There is no reason for such an allusion, Mr. Scofield.” 

“ Well, then, that you had no other choice.” 

“ That ’s better. But how in the world can you manage 
it?” 

“ You will have to put your arm around my neck.” 

22 


338 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

« Oh ! ” 

** You would put your arm around a post, would n’t you? ” 
he asked with more than his old brusqueness. 

‘‘Yes-s; but — ” 

But the tide is going out. My own boat will soon be 
fast. Dinner will grow cold at the hotel, and you are only 
the longer in dispensing with me. You must consider the 
other dire alternatives.” 

“ Oh, I forgot that you were in danger of losing a warm 
dinner.” 

You know I have lost too much to think of that or much 
else. But there is no need of satire. Miss Madison. I will 
do whatever you wish. That tn^y is carte blanche enough 
even for this occasion.” 

“ I did n’t mean to be satirical. I — I ^ — Well, have 
your own way.” 

Not if you prefer some other way.” 

“ You have shown that practically there is n’t any other 
way. I ’m sorry that my misfortune, or fault rather, should 
also be your misfortune. You don’t know how heavy — ” 

“ I soon will, and you must endure it all with such grace 
as you can. Put your arm around my neck, so — oh, that 
will never do ! Well, you ’ll hold tight enough when I ’m 
(laundering in the mud.” 

Without further ado he picked her up, and started rap- 
idly for his boat. Stepping on a smooth stone he nearly 
fell, and her arm did tighten decidedly. 

“ If you try to go so fast,” she said, ‘‘ you will fall.” 

I was only seeking to shorten your ordeal, but for obvi- 
ous reasons must go slowly ; ” and he began feeling his way. 

“ Mr. Scofield, am I not very heavy? ” she asked softly. 

Not as heavy as my heart, and you know it.” 

“ I ’m sure I — ” 







CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE. 


339 

No, you are not to blame. Moths have scorched their 
wings before now, and will always continue to do so.” 

Her head rested slightly against his shoulder ; her breath 
fanned his cheek; her eyes, soft and lustrous, sought his. 
But he looked away gloomy and defiant, and she felt his 
grasp tighten vice-like around her. I shall not affect any 
concealment of the feelings which she has recognized so 
often, nor shall I ask any favors,” he thought. ** There,” 
he said, as he placed her in his boat, you are safe enough 
now. Now go aft while I push off.” 

When she was seated he exerted himself almost as greatly 
• as before, and the boat gradually slid into the water. He 
sprang in and took the oars. 

“Aren’t you going to put on your shoes and stockings? ” 

“ Certainly, when I put you ashore.” 

“Won’t that be a pretty certain way of revealing the 
plight in which you found me?” 

“ Pardon my stupidity ; I was preoccupied with the 
thought of relieving you from the society which you have 
hitherto avoided so successfully ; ” and bending over his 
shoes he tied them almost savagely. 

There was a wonderful degree of mirth and tenderness in 
her eyes as she watched him. They had floated by a little 
point; and as he raised his head he saw a form which 
he recognized as Mr. Merriweather rowing toward them. 
“There comes one of your shadows,” he said mockingly. 
“ Be careful how you exchange boats when he comes along- 
side. I will give you no help in such a case.” 

She looked hastily oy^r her shoulder at the approaching 
oarsman. I think it will be safer to remain in your boat,” 
she said. 

“ Oh, it will be entirely safe,” he replied bitterly. 

“ Mr. Merriweather must have seen you carrying me.” 


340 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

** That ’s another thing which I can’t help.” 

** Mr. Scofield,” she began softly. 

He arrested his oars, and turned wondering eyes to hers. 
They were sparkling with mirth as she continued, Are you 
satisfied that a certain young woman whom you once watched 
very narrowly is entirely to your mind? ” 

He caught her mirthful glance and misunderstood her. 
With dignity he answered, ‘‘I’m not the first man who 
blundered to his cost, though probably it would have made 
no difference. You must do me the justice, however, to 
admit that I did not maintain the role of observer very 
long, — that I wooed you so openly that every one was 
aware of my suit. Is it not a trifle cruel to taunt me after 
I had made such ample amends?” 

“ I was thinking of Mr. Merriweather — ” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“ Since he has seen me with my arm around your neck, 
— you know I could n’t help it, — perhaps he might row 
the other way if — if — well, if he saw you — what shall I 
say — sitting over here — by me — or — Somehow I don’t 
feel very hungry, and I wouldn’t mind spending another 
hour — ” 

Scofield nearly upset the boat in his precipitous effort to 
gain a seat beside her — and Mr. Merriweather did row 
another way. 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES. 


TT was the beginning of a battle. The skirmish line of 
the Union advance was sweeping rapidly over a rough 
mountainous region in the South, and in his place on the 
extreme left of this line was Private Anson Marlow. Tall 
trees rising from underbrush, rocks, bowlders, gulches worn 
by spring torrents, were the characteristics of the field, which 
was in wild contrast with the parade-grounds on which the 
combatants had first learned the tactics of war. The ma- 
jority, however, of those now in the ranks had since been 
drilled too often under like circumstances, and with lead 
and iron shotted guns, not to know their duty, and the lines 
of battle were as regular as the broken country allowed. 
So far as many obstacles permitted, Marlow kept his proper 
distance from the others on the line and fired coolly when 
he caught glimpses of the retreating Confederate skirmishers. 
They were retiring with ominous readiness toward a wooded 
height which the enemy occupied with a force of unknown 
strength. That strength was soon manifested in temporary 
disaster to the Union forces, which were driven back with 
heavy loss. 

Neither the battle nor its fortunes are the objects of our 
present concern, but rather the fate of Private Marlow. The 
tide of battle drifted away and left the soldier desperately 
wounded in a narrow ravine, through which babbled a small 


342 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

Stream. Excepting the voices of his wife and children, no 
music had ever sounded so sweetly in his ears. With great 
difficulty he crawled to a little bubbling pool formed by a 
tiny cascade and encircling stones, and partially slaked his 
intolerable thirst. 

He believed he was dying, — bleeding to death. The 
very thought blunted his faculties for a time ; and he was 
conscious of little beyond a dull wonder. Could it be pos- 
sible that the tragedy of his death was enacting in that 
peaceful, secluded nook? Could Nature be so indifferent or 
so unconscious if it were true that he was soon to lie there 
dead ? He saw the speckled trout lying motionless at the 
bottom of the pool, the gray squirrels sporting in the boughs 
over his head. The sunlight shimmered and glinted through 
th'e leaves, flecking wijth light his prostrate form. He dipped 
his hand in the blood that had welled from his side, and it 
fell in rubies from his fingers. Could that be his blood, — 
his life-blood ; and would it soon all ooze away ? Could it 
be that death was coming through all the brightness of that 
summer afternoon ? 

From a shadowed tree farther up the glen, a wood-thrush 
suddenly began its almost unrivalled song. The familiar 
melody, heard so often from his cottage-porch in the June 
twilight, awoke him to the bitter truth. His wife had then 
sat beside him, while his little ones played here ^nd there 
among Aie trees and shrubbery. They would hear the same 
song to- day ; he would never hear it again. That counted 
for little ; but the thought of their sitting behind the vipes 
and listening to their favorite bird, spring after spring and 
summer al^r summer, and he ever absent, overwhelmed 
him. 

Oh, Gertrude, my wife, my wife ! Oh, my children ! ” he 
groaned. 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES. 343 

His breast heaved with a great sigh; the blood welled 
afresh from his wound ; what seemed a mortal weakness 
crept over him ; and he thought he died. 


“ Say, Eb, is he done gone? ” 

“ ’Clar to grashus if I know. Tears mighty like it.” 

These words were spoken by two stout negroes, who 
had stolen to the battle-field as the sounds of conflict 
died away. 

‘‘I’m doggoned !f I tink dat he’s dead. He’s only 
swoonded,” asserted the man addressed as Eb. “ ’T won’t 
do to lebe ’im here to die, Zack.” 

“ Sartin not ; we ’d hab bad luck all our days.” 

“ I reckon ole man Pearson will keep him ; and his wife’s 
a po’ful nuss.” 

“ Pearson orter ; he ’s a Unioner.” 

“ S’pose we try him ; ’t ain’t so bery fur off.” 


On the morning of the 24th of December, Mrs. Anson 
Marlow sat in the living-room of her cottage, that stood 
well out in the suburbs jof a Northern town. Her eyes were 
hollow and full of trouble that seemed almost beyond tears, 
and the bare room, that had been stripped of nearly every 
appliance and suggestion of comfort, but too plainly indi- 
cated one of the causes. Want was stamped on her thin 
face, that once had been so full and pretty ; poverty in its 
bitter extremity was unmistakably shown by the uncarpeted 
floor, the meagre fire, and scanty furniture. It was a period 
of depression ; work had been scarce, and much of the 
time she had been too ill and feeble to do more than care 
for her children. Away back in August her resources had 
been running low ; but she had daily expected the long 


344 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

arrears of pay which her husband would receive as soon as 
the exigencies of the campaign permitted. Instead of these 
funds, so greatly needed, came the tidings of a Union defeat, 
with her husband’s name down among the missing. Be- 
yond that brief mention, so horrible in its vagueness, she 
had never heard a word from the one who not only sustained 
her home, but also her heart. Was he languishing in a 
Southern prison, or, mortally wounded, had he lingered out 
some terrible hours on that wild battle-field, a brief descrip- 
tion of which had been so dwelt upon by her morbid fancy 
that it had become like one of the scenes in Dante’s In- 
ferno”? For a long time she could not and would not 
believe that such an overwhelming disaster had befallen 
her and her children, although she knew that similar losses 
had come to thousands of others. Events that the world 
regards as not only possible but probable are often so terri- 
ble in their personal consequences that we shrink from even 
the bare thought of their occurrence. 

If Mrs. Marlow had been told from the first that her hus- 
band was dead, the shock resulting would not have been so 
injurious as the suspense that robbed her of rest for days, 
weeks, and months. She haunted the post-office, and if a 
stranger was seen coming up the street toward her cottage 
she watched feverishly for his turning in at her gate with 
the tidings of her husband’s safety. Night after night she 
lay awake, hoping, praying that she might hear his step 
returning on a furlough to which wounds or sickness had 
entitled him. The natural and inevitable result was illness 
and nervous prostration. 

Practical neighbors had told her that her course was all 
wrong ; that she should be resigned and even cheerful for 
her children’s sake ; that she needed to sleep well and live 
well, in order that she might have strength to provide for 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN IVAR TIMES 


345 

them. She would make pathetic attempts to follow this 
sound and thrifty advice, but suddenly when at her work or 
in her troubled sleep, that awful word “missing” would 
pierce her heart like an arrow, and she would moan, and at 
times in the depths of her anguish cry out, “ Oh, where is 
he? Shall I ever see him again? ” 

But the unrelenting demands of life are made as surely 
upon the breaking as upon the happy heart. She and her 
children must have food, clothing, and shelter. Her illness 
and feebleness at last taught her that she must not yield to 
her grief, except so far as she was unable to suppress it ; 
that for the sake of those now seemingly dependent upon 
her, she must rally every shattered nerve and every relaxed 
muscle. With a heroism far beyond that of her husband 
and his comrades in the field, she sought to fight the wolf 
from the door, or at least to keep him at bay. Although 
the struggle seemed a hopeless one, she patiently did her 
best from day to day, eking out her scanty earnings by the 
sale or pawn of such of her household goods as she could 
best spare. She felt that she would do anything rather than 
reveal her poverty or accept charity. Some help was more 
or less kindly offered, but beyond such aid as one neigh- 
bor may receive of another, she had said gently but firmly, 
“Not yet.” 

The Marlows were comparative strangers in the city where 
they had resided. Her husband had been a teacher in one 
of its public schools, and his salary small. Patriotism had 
been his motive for entering the army, and while it had 
cost him a mighty struggle to leave his family, he felt that 
he had no more reason to hold back than thousands of 
others. He believed that he could still provide for those 
dependent upon him, and if he fell, those for whom he died 
would not permit his widow and children to suffer. But 


346 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

the first popular enthusiasm for the war had largely died 
out ; the city was full of widows and orphans ; there was 
depression of spirit, stagnation in business, and a very gen- 
eral disposition on the part of those who had means, to 
take care of themselves, and provide for darker days that 
might be in the immediate future. Sensitive, retiring Mrs. 
Marlow was not the one to push her claims or reveal her 
need. Moreover, she could never give up the hope that 
tidings from her husband might at any time bring relief 
and safety. 

But the crisis had come at last ; and on this dreary 
December day she was face to face with absolute want. 
The wolf, with his gaunt eyes, was crouched beside her 
cold hearth. A pittance owed to her for work had not 
been paid. The little food left in the house had furnished 
the children an unsatisfying breakfast ; she had eaten noth- 
ing. On the table beside her lay a note from the agent of 
the estate of which her home was a part, bidding her call 
that morning. She knew why, — the rent was two months 
in arrears. It seemed like death to leave the house in 
which her husband had placed her, and wherein she had 
spent her happiest days. It stood well away from the 
crowded town. The little yard and garden, with their 
trees, vines, and shrubbery, some of which her husband 
had planted, were all dear from association. In the rear 
there was a grove and open fields, which, though not be- 
longing to the cottage, were not forbidden to the chil- 
dren ; and they formed a wonderland of delight in spring, 
summer, and fall. Must she take her active, restless boy 
Jamie, the image of his father, into a crowded tenement? 
Must golden-haired Susie, with her dower of beauty, be 
imprisoned in one close room, or else be exposed to the 
evil of corrupt association just beyond the threshold? 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR 7VMES. 


347 

Moreover, her retired home had become a refuge. Here 
she could hide her sorrow and poverty. Here she could 
touch what he had touched, and sit during the long winter 
evenings in his favorite corner by the fire. Around her, 
within and without, were the little appliances for her com- 
fort which his hands had made. How could she leave all 
this and live? Deep in her heart also the hope would 
linger that he would come again and seek her where he had 
left her. 

O God ! ” she cried suddenly. “ Thou wouldst not, 
couldst not permit him to die without one farewell word,” 
and she buried her face in her hands and rocked back 
and forth, while hard, dry sobs shook her slight, famine- 
pinched form. 

The children stopped their play and came and leaned 
upon her lap. 

Don’t cry, mother,” said Jamie, a little boy of ten. 

I ’ll soon be big enough to work for you ; and I ’ll get 
rich, and you shall have the biggest house in town. I ’ll 
take care of you if papa don’t come back.” 

Little Sue knew not what to say, but the impulse of her 
love was her best guide. She threw her arms around her 
mother’s neck with such an impetuous and childlike out- 
burst of affection that the poor woman’s bitter and despair- 
ing thoughts were banished for a time. The deepest chord 
of her nature, mother love, was touched ; and for her chil- 
dren’s sake she rose up once more and faced the hard 
problems of her life. Putting on her bonnet and thin shawl 
(she had parted with much that she now so sorely needed), 
she went out into the cold December wind. The sky was 
clouded like her hopes, and the light, even in the morning 
hours, was dim and leaden-hued. 

She first called on Mr. Jackson, the agent from whom she 


348 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

rented her home, and besought him to give her a little 
more time. 

“ I will beg for work from door to door,” she said. 
“ Surely in this Christian city there must be those who 
will give me work; and that is all I ask.” 

The sleek, comfortable man, in his well-appointed office, 
was touched slightly, and said in a voice that was not so 
gruff as he at first had intended it should be, — 

^‘Well, I will wait a week or two longer. If then you 
cannot pay something on what is already due, my duty to 
my employers will compel me to take the usual course. 
You have told me all along that your husband would surely 
return, and I have hated to say a word to discourage you ; 
but I fear you will have to bring yourself to face the truth 
and act accordingly, as so many others have done. I 
know it’s very hard for you, but I am held responsible by my 
employer, and at my intercession he has been lenient, as 
you must admit. You could get a room or two in town for 
half what you must pay where you are. Good-morning.” 

She went out again into the street, which the shrouded 
sky made sombre in spite of preparations seen on every 
side for the chief festival of the year. The fear was grow- 
ing strong that like Him in whose memory the day was 
honored, she and her little ones might soon not know where 
to lay their heads. She succeeded in getting the small sum 
owed to her and payment also for some sewing just finished. 
More work she could not readily obtain, for every one was 
busy and preoccupied by the coming day of gladness. 

“Call again,” some said kindly or carelessly, according 
to their nature. “ After the holidays are over we will try 
to have or make some work for you.” 

“ But I need — I must have work now,” she ventured to 
say whenever she had the chance. 


CHRISl'MAS EVE IN WAR TIMES. 


349 


In response to this appeal there were a few offers of 
charity, small indeed, but from which she drew back with 
an instinct so strong that it could not be overcome. On 
every side she heard the same story. The times were very 
hard ; requests for work and aid had been so frequent that 
purses and patience were exhausted. Moreover, people 
had spent their Christmas money on their households and 
friends, and were already beginning to feel poor. 

At last she obtained a little work, and having made a few 
purchases of that which was absolutely essential, she was 
about to drag her weary feet homeward when the thought 
occurred to her that the children would want to hang up 
their stockings at night ; and she murmured, “ It may be 
the last chance I shall ever have to put a Christmas gift in 
them. Oh, that I were stronger ! Oh, that I could take 
my sorrow more as others seem to take theirs ! But I can- 
not, I cannot ! My burden is greater than I can bear. The 
cold of this awful day is chilling my very heart, and my grief, 
as hope dies, is crushing my soul. Oh, he must be dead, 
he must be dead \ That is what they all think. God help 
my little ones ! Oh, what will become of them if I sink, 
as I fear I shall ! If it were not for them I feel as if I 
would fall and die here in the street. Well, be our fate 
what it may, they shall owe to me one more gleam of hap- 
piness ; ” and she went into a confectioner’s shop and bought 
a few ornamented cakes. These were the only gifts she 
could afford, and they must be in the form of food. 

Before she reached home the snow was whirling in the 
frosty air, and the shadows of the brief winter day deepen- 
ing fast. With a smile far more pathetic than tears she 
greeted the children, who were cold, hungry, and frightened 
at her long absence ; and they, children-like, saw only the 
smile, and not the grief it masked. They saw also the 


350 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

basket which she placed on the table, and were quick to 
note that it seemed a little fuller than of late. 

Jamie,” she said, ^^run to the store down the street for 
some coal and kindlings that I bought, and then we will 
have a good fire and a nice supper ; ” and the boy, at such 
a prospect, eagerly obeyed. 

She was glad to have him gone, that she might hide her 
weakness. She sank into a chair, so white and faint that 
even little Susie left off peering into the basket, and came 
to her with a troubled face. 

“ It ’s nothing, dearie,” the poor creature said. “ Mam- 
ma ’s only a little tired. See,” she added, tottering to the 
table, “ I have brought you a great piece of gingerbread.” 

The hungry child grasped it, and was oblivious and 
happy. 

By the time Jamie returned with his first basket of kin- 
dling and coal, the mother had so far rallied from her ex- 
haustion as to meet him smilingly again and help him 
replenish the dying fire. 

“Now you shall rest and have your gingerbread before 
going for your second load,” she said cheerily ; and the boy 
took what was ambrosia to him, and danced around the 
room in joyous reaction from the depression of the long 
weary day, during which, lonely and hungry, he had won- 
dered why his mother did not return. * 

“So little could make them happy, and yet I cannot 
seem to obtain even that little,” she sighed. “I fear — 
indeed, I fear, — I cannot be with them another Christmas ; 
therefore they shall remember that I tried to make them 
happy once more, and the recollection may survive the 
long sad days before them, and become a part of^ my 
memory.” 

The room was now growing dark, and she lighted the 


r 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES. 35 I 

lamp. Then she cowered shiveringly over the reviving 
fire, feeling as if she could never be warm again. 

The street-lamps were lighted early on that clouded, 
stormy evening, and they were a signal to Mr. Jackson, 
the agent, to leave his office. He remembered that he 
had ordered a holiday dinner, and now found himself in 
a mood to enjoy it. He had scarcely left his door before 
a man, coming up the street with great strides and head 
bent down to the snow- laden blast, brushed roughly against 
him. The stranger’s cap was drawn over his eyes, and the 
raised collar of his blue army overcoat nearly concealed his 
face. The man hurriedly begged pardon, and was hastening 
on when Mr. Jackson’s exclamation of surprise caused him 
to stop and look at the person he had jostled. 

“Why, Mr. Marlow,” the agent began, “I’m glad to 
see you. It’s a pleasure I feared I should never have 
again.” 

“ My wife,” the man almost gasped, “ she ’s still in the 
house I rented of you?” 

“ Oh, certainly,” was the hasty reply. “ It ’ll be all right 
now.” 

“What do you mean? Has it not been all right? ” 

“Well, you see,” said Mr. Jackson, apologetically, “we 
have been very lenient to your wife, but the rent has not 
been paid for over two months, and — ” 

“ And you were about to turn her and her children out- 
of-doors in midwinter,” broke in the soldier, wrathfully. 
“That is the* way you sleek, comfortable stay' at-home 
people care for those fighting your battles. After you 
concluded that I was dead, and that the rent might not 
be forthcoming, you decided to put my wife into the 
street. Open your office, sir, and you shall have your 
rent.” 


352 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ Now, Mr. Marlow, there ’s no cause for pitching into 
me in this way. You know that I am but an agent, and — ” 

“ Tell your rich employer, then, what I have said, and 
ask him what he would be worth to-day were there not men 
like myself, who are willing to risk everything and suffer 
everything for the Union. But I ’ve no time to bandy 
words. Have you seen my wife lately?” 

Yes,” was the hesitating reply ; she was here to-day, 
and I — ” 

“ How is she? What did you say to her? ” 

‘‘Well, she doesn’t look very strong. I felt sorry for 
her, and gave her more time, taking the responsibility 
myself—” 

“ How much time?*” 

“ I said two weeks, but no doubt I could have had the 
time extended.” 

“ I have my doubts. Will you and your employer please 
accept my humble gratitude that you had the grace not to 
turn her out-of-doors during the holiday season. It might 
have caused remark ; but that consideration and some oth- 
ers that I might name are not to be weighed against a few 
dollars and cents. I shall now remove the strain upon your 
patriotism at once, and will not only pay arrears, but also 
for two months in advance.” 

“ Oh, there ’s no need of that to-day.” 

“Yes, there is. My wife shall feel to-night that she has 
a home. She evidently has not received the letter I wrote 
as soon as I reached our lines, or you would not have been 
talking to her about two weeks more of shelter.” 

The agent reopened his office and saw a roll of bills 
extracted from Marlow’s pocket that left no doubt of the 
soldier’s ability to provide for his family. He gave his 
receipt in silence, feeling that words would not mend mat- 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES. 353 

ters, and then trudged off to his dinner with a flagging 
appetite. 

As Marlow strode away he came to a sudden resolution, — 
he would look upon his wife and children before they saw 
him ; he would feast his eyes while they were unconscious 
of the love that was beaming upon them. The darkness 
and storm favored his project, and in brief time he saw the 
light in his window. Unlatching the gate softly, and with 
his steps muffled by the snow that already carpeted the 
frozen ground, he reached the window, the blinds of which 
were but partially closed. His children frolicking about the 
room were the first objects that caught his eye, and he 
almost laughed aloud in his joy. Then, by turning another 
blind slightly, he saw his wife shivering over the fire. 

“ Great God ! ” he muttered, how she has suffered ! ” 
and he was about to rush in and take her into his arms. 
On the threshold he restrained himself, paused, and said, 
No, not yet ; I ’ll break the news of my return in my own 
way. The shock of my sudden appearance might be too 
great for her;” and he went back to the window. The 
wife’s eyes were following her children with such a wistful 
tenderness that the boy, catching her gaze, stopped his 
sport, came to her side, and began to speak. They were 
but a few feet away, and Marlow caught every word. 

“ Mamma,” the child said, “ you did n’t eat any break- 
fast, and I don’t believe you have eaten anything to-day. 
You are always giving everything to us. Now I declare I 
won’t eat another bit unless you take half of my cake;” 
and he broke off a piece and laid it in her lap. 

^^Oh, Jamie,” cried the poor woman, “you looked so 
like your father when you spoke that I could almost see 
him ; ” and she caught him in her arms and covered him 
with kisses. 


23 


354 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ I ’ll soon be big enough to take care of you. I ’m 
going to grow up just like papa ana ao everything for you,” 
the boy said proudly as she released him. 

Little Susie also came and placed what was left of her 
cake in her mother’s lap, saying, — 

I ’ll work for you too, m.amma ; and to-morrow I ’ll sell 
the doll Santa Claus gave me last Christmas, and then we ’ll 
all have plenty to eat.” 

Anson Marlow was sobbing outside the window as only 
a man weeps; and his tears in the bitter cold became 
drops of ice before they reached the ground. 

My darlings ! ” the mother cried. “ Oh, God spare me 
to you and provide some way for us ! Your love should 
make me rich though I lack all else. There, I won’t cry 
any more, and you shall have as happy a Christmas as I can 
give you. Perhaps He who knew what it was to be home- 
less and shelterless will provide for our need ; so we ’ll try 
to trust Him and keep His birthday. And now, Jamie, go 
and bring the rest of the coal, and then we will make the 
dear home that papa gave us cheery and warm once more. 
If he were only with us we would n’t mind hunger or cold, 
would we ? Oh, my husband I ” she broke out afresh, if 
you could only come back, even though crippled and help- 
less, I feel that I could live and grow strong from simple 
gladness.” 

“ Don’t you think, mamma,” Jamie asked, that God will 
let papa come down from heaven and spend Christmas with 
us? He might be here like the angels, and we not see him.” 

‘‘I’m afraid not,” the sad woman replied, shaking her 
head and speaking more to herself than to the child. “ I 
don’t see how he could go back to heaven and be happy 
if he knew all. No, we must be patient and try to do our 
best, so that we can go to him. Go now, Jamie, before it 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES. 355 

gets too late. I ’ll get supper, and then we ’ll sing a Christ- 
mas hymn j and you and Susie shall hang up your stockings, 
just as you did last Christmas, when dear papa was with us. 
We ’ll try to do everything he would wish, and then by and 
by we shall see him again.” 

As the boy started on his errand his father stepped back 
out of the light of the window, then followed the child with 
a great yearning in his heart. He would make sure the 
boy was safe at home again before he carried out his plan. 
From a distance he saw the little fellow receive the coal 
and start slowly homeward with the burden, and he followed 
to a point where the light of the street-lamps ceased, then 
joined the child, and said in a gruff voice, Here, little 
man, I ’m going your way. Let me carry your basket ; ” 
and he took it and strode on so fast that the boy had to 
run to keep pace with him. Jamie shuffled along through 
the snow as well as he could, but his little legs were so short 
in comparison with those of the kindly stranger that he 
found himself gradually falling behind. So he put on an 
extra burst of speed and managed to lay hold of the long 
blue skirt of the army overcoat. 

Please, sir, don’t go quite so fast,” he panted. 

The stranger slackened his pace, and in a constrained 
tone of voice, asked, — 

How far are you going, little man? ” 

Only to our house, — mamma’s. She ’s Mrs. Marlow, 
you know.” 

Yes, I know, — that is, I reckon I do. How much 
farther is it ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, not much ; we ’re most halfway now. I say, you ’re 
a soldier, are n’t you? ” 

Yes, my boy,” said Marlow, with a lump in his throat. 

Why?” 


356 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

** Well, you see, my papa is a soldier too, and I thought 
you might know him. We have n’t heard from him for a 
good while, and — ” choking a bit — ^‘mamma’s afraid he 
is hurt, or taken prisoner or something.” He could not 
bring himself to say ‘^killed.” 

Jamie let go the overcoat to draw his sleeve across his 
eyes, and the big man once more strode on faster than ever, 
and Jamie began to fear lest the dusky form might disap- 
pear in the snow and darkness with both basket and coal ; 
but the apparent stranger so far forgot his part that he put 
down the basket at Mrs. Marlow’s gate, and then passed on 
so quickly that the panting boy had not time to thank him. 
Indeed, Anson Marlow knew that if he lingered but a mo- 
ment he would have the child in his arms. 

‘‘Why, Jamie,” exclaimed his mother, “how could you 
get back so soon with that heavy basket ? It was too heavy 
for you, but you will have to be mamma’s little man now.” 

“ A big man caught up with me and carried it. I don’t 
care if he did have a gruff voice, I ’m sure he was a good 
kind man. He knew where we lived too, for he put the 
basket down at our gate before I could say a word, I was so 
out of breath, and then he was out of sight in a minute.” 
Some instinct kept him from saying anything about the army 
overcoat. 

“ It ’s some neighbor that lives farther up the street, I 
suppose, and saw you getting the coal at the store,” Mrs. 
Marlow said. “Yes, Jamie, it was a good, kind act to help 
a little boy, and I think he ’ll have a happier Christmas for 
doing it.” 

“ Do you really think he ’ll have a happier Christmas, 
mamma? ” 

“ Yes, I truly think so. We are so made that we cannot 
do a kind act without feeling the better for it.” 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES. 


357 

Well, I think he was a queer sort of a man if he was 
kind. I never knew any one to walk so fast. I spoke to 
him once, but he did not answer. Perhaps the wind roared 
so he could n’t hear me.” 

“No doubt he was hurrying home to his wife and chil- 
dren,” she said with a deep sigh. 

When his boy disappeared within the door of the cot- 
tage, Marlow turned and walked rapidly toward the city, 
first going to the grocery at which he had been in the 
habit of purchasing his supplies. The merchant stared for 
a moment, then stepped forward and greeted his customer 
warmly. 

“ Well,” he said, after his first exclamations of surprise 
were over, “ the snow has made you almost as white as a 
ghost ; but I ’m glad you ’re not one. We scarce ever 
thought to see you again.” 

“Has my wife an open account here now?” was the 
brief response. 

“ Yes, and it might have been much larger. I ’ve told 
her so too. She stopped taking credit some time ago, and 
when she ’s had a dollar or two to spare she ’s paid it on the 
old score. She bought so little that I said to her once. that 
she need not go elsewhere to buy ; that I ’d sell to her as 
cheap as any one ; that I believed you ’d come back all 
right, and if you did n’t she could pay me when she could. 
What do you think she did? Why, she burst out crying, 
and said, ^ God bless you, sir, for saying my husband will 
come back ! So many have discouraged me.’ I declare to 
you her feeling was so right down genuine that I had to 
mop my own eyes. But she would n’t take any more credit, 
and she bought so little that I ’ve been troubled. I ’d have 
sent her something, but your wife somehow ain’t one of 
them kind that you can give things to, and — ” 


358 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

Marlow interrupted the good-hearted, garrulous shopman 
by saying significantly, “ Come with me to your back- 
office ; ” for the soldier feared that some one might enter 
who would recognize him and carry the tidings to his home 
prematurely. 

Mr. Wilkins,” he said rapidly, I wanted to find out if 
you too had thriftily shut down on a soldier’s wife. You 
shall not regret your kindness.” 

“ Hang it all ! ” broke in Wilkins, with compunction, I 
have n’t been very kind. I ought to have gone and seen 
your wife and found out how things were ; and I meant to, 
but I ’ve been so confoundedly busy — ” 

“ No matter now ; I ’ve not a moment to spare. You 
must help me to break the news of my return in my own 
way. I mean they shall have such a Christmas in the little 
cottage as was never known in this town. You could send 
a load right over there, could n’t you? ” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” said Wilkins, under the impulse of 
both business thrift and good-will ; and a list of tea, cof- 
fee, sugar, flour, bread, cakes, apples, etc., was dashed off 
rapidly ; and Marlow had the satisfaction of seeing the 
errand-boy, the two clerks, and the proprietor himself busily 
working to fill the order in the shortest possible space of 
time. 

He next went to a restaurant, a little farther down the 
street, where he had taken his meals for a short time before 
he brought his family to town, and was greeted with almost 
equal surprise and warmth. Marlow cut short all words by 
his almost feverish haste. A huge turkey had just been 
roasted for the needs of the coming holiday, and this with 
a cold ham and a pot of coffee was ordered to be sent in a 
covered tray within a quarter of an hour. Then a toy-shop 
was visited, and such a doll purchased ! for tears came into 



Jamie ran to open it. 


U'aken Alive. 


Page 359 





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CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES. 


359 

Marlow’s eyes whenever he thought of his child’s offer to 
sell her dolly for her mother’s sake. 

After selecting a sled for Jamie, and directing that they 
should be sent at once, he could restrain his impatience no 
longer, and almost tore back to his station at the cottage 
window. His wife was placing the meagre little supper on 
the table, and how poor and scanty it was ! 

Is that the best the dear soul can do on Christmas 
Eve?” he groaned. Why, there’s scarcely enough for 
little Sue. Thank God, my darling, I will sit down with 
you to a rather different supper before long ! ” 

He bowed his head reverently with his wife as she asked 
God’s blessing, and wondered at her faith. Then he looked 
and listened again with a heart-hunger which had been 
growing for months. 

“ Do you really think Santa Claus will fill our stockings 
to-night?” Sue asked. 

“ I think he ’ll have something for you,” she replied. 

There are so many poor little boys and girls in the city 
that he may not be able to bring very much to you.” 

Who is Santa Claus, anyway? ” questioned Jamie. 

Tears came into the wife’s eyes as she thought of the 
one who had always remembered them so kindly as far as 
his modest means permitted. 

She hesitated in her reply ; and before she could decide 
upon an answer there was a knock at the door. Jamie ran 
to open it, and started back as a man entered with cap, eye- 
brows, beard, and shaggy coat all white with the falling snow. 
He placed two great baskets of provisions on the floor, and 
said they were for Mrs. Anson Marlow. 

“ There is some mistake,” Mrs. Marlow began ; but the 
children, after staring a moment, shouted, Santa Claus ! 
Santa Claus ! ” 


360 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

The grocer’s man took the unexpected cue instantly, and 
said, “ No mistake, ma’am. They are from Santa Claus ; ” 
and before another word could be spoken he was gone. 
The face of the grocer’s man was not very familiar to Mrs. 
Marlow, and the snow had disguised him completely. The 
children had no misgivings and pounced upon the baskets 
and with exclamations of delight drew out such articles as 
they could lift. 

“ I can’t understand it,” said the mother, bewildered and 
almost frightened. 

‘‘ Why, mamma, it ’s as plain as day,” cried Jamie. 
‘‘ Did n’t he look just like the pictures of Santa Claus, — 
white beard and white eyebrows? Oh, mamma, mamma, 
here is a great paper of red-cheeked apples ! ” and he and 
Susie tugged at it until they dragged it over the side of 
the basket, when the bottom of the bag came out, and 
the fruit flecked the floor with red and gold. Oh, the 
bliss of picking up those apples; of comparing one with 
another; of running to the mother and asking which was 
the biggest and which the reddest and most beautifully 
streaked ! 

There must have been some mistake,” the poor woman 
kept murmuring as she examined the baskets and found how 
liberal and varied was the supply, for who could or would 
have been so kind? ” 

‘^Why, mommie,” said little Sue, reproachfully, “Santa 
Claus brought ’em. Have n’t you always told us that Santa 
Claus liked to make us happy? ” 

The long- exiled father felt that he could restrain himself 
but a few moments longer, and he was glad to see that the 
rest of his purchases were at the door. With a look so in- 
tent, and yearning concentration of thought so intense that 
it was strange that they could not feel his presence, he bent 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN tVAR TIMES. 36 1 

his eyes once more upon a scene that would imprint itself 
upon his memory forever. 

But while he stood there, another scene came before his 
mental vision. Oddly enough his thought went back to that 
far-off Southern brookside, where he had lain with his hands 
in the cool water. He leaned against the window- casing, 
with the Northern snow whirling about his head ; but he 
breathed the balmy breath of a Southern forest, the wood- 
thrush sang in the trees overhead, and he could — so it 
seemed to him — actually feel the water- worn pebbles under 
his palms as he watched the life-blood ebbing from his side. 
Then there was a dim consciousness of rough but kindly 
arms bearing him through the underbrush, and more dis- 
tinctly the memory of weary weeks of convalescence in a 
mountaineer’s cabin. All these scenes of peril, before he 
finally reached the Union lines, passed before him as he 
stood in a species of trance beside the window of his 
home. 

The half-grown boys sent from the restaurant and toy- shop 
could not be mistaken for Santa Claus even by the credulous 
fancy of the children, and Mrs. Marlow stepped forward 
eagerly and said, — 

<‘I am sure there is some mistake. You are certainly 
leaving these articles at the wrong house.” The faces of 
the children began to grow anxious and troubled also, for 
even their faith could not accept such marvellous good for- 
tune. Jamie looked at the sled with a kind of awe, and saw 
at a glance that it was handsomer than any in the street. 
‘'Mr. Lansing, a wealthy man, lives a little farther on,” 
Mrs. Marlow began to urge; “and these things must be 
meant — ” 

“Isn’t your name Mrs. Anson Marlow? ” asked the boy 
from the restaurant. 


362 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

‘‘Yes.” 

“Then I must do as I’ve been told;” and he opened 
his tray and placed the turkey, the ham, and the coffee on 
the table. 

“ If he ’s right, I ’m right too,” said he of the toy- 
shop. “ Them was my directions ; ” and they were both 
about to depart when the woman sprang forward and 
gasped, — 

“ Stay ! ” 

She clasped her hands and trembled violently. 

“Who sent these things? ” she faltered. 

“ Our bosses, mum,” replied the boy from the restaurant, 
hesitatingly. 

She sprang toward him, seized his arm, and looked im- 
ploringly into his face. “Who ordered them sent?” she 
asked in a low, passionate voice. 

The young fellow began to smile, and stammered awk- 
wardly, “ I don’t think I ’m to tell.” 

She released his arm and glanced around with a look of 
intense expectation.. 

“ Oh, oh ! ” she gasped with quick, short sobs, “ can it 
be — ” Then she sprang to the door, opened it, and 
looked out into the black, stormy night. What seemed a 
shadow rushed toward her; she felt herself falling, but 
strong arms caught and bore her, half fainting, to a lounge 
within the room. 

Many have died from sorrow, but few from joy. With 
her husband’s arms around her Mrs. Marlow’s weakness 
soon passed. In response to his deep, earnest tones of 
soothing and entreaty, she speedily opened her eyes and 
gave him a smile so full of content and unutterable joy 
that all anxiety in her behalf began to pass from his 
mind. 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES. 363 

‘‘Yes/’ she said softly, “I can live now. It seems as 
if a new and stronger life were coming back with every 
breath.” 

The young fellows who had been the bearers of the gifts 
were so touched that they drew their rough sleeves across 
their eyes as they hastened away, closing the door on the 
happiest family in the city. 


A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS. 


A TRADITION OF THE REVOLUTION. 


"VT OT very far from the Highlands of the Hudson, but at 
^ a considerable distance from the river, there stood, 
one hundred years ago, a farm-house that evidently had been 
built as much for strength and defence as for comfort. The 
dwelling was one story and a half in height, and was con- 
structed of hewn logs, fitted closely together, and made 
impervious to the weather by old-fashioned mortar, which 
seems to defy the action of time. Two entrances facing 
each other led to the main or living room, and they were 
so large that a horse could pass through them, dragging in 
immense back-logs. These, having been detached from a 
chain when in the proper position, were rolled into the huge 
fireplace that yawned like a sooty cavern at the farther end 
of the apartment. A modern housekeeper, who finds wood 
too dear an article for even the air-tight stove, would be 
appalled by this fireplace. Stalwart Mr. Reynolds, the 
master of the house, could easily walk under its stony arch 
without removing his broad-brimmed Quaker hat. From 
the left side, and at a convenient height from the hearth, 
a massive crane swung in and out ; while high above the 
centre of the fire was an iron hook, or trammel, from which 
by chains were suspended the capacious iron pots used 
in those days for culinary or for stock-feeding purposes. 


A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS. 365 

This trammel, which hitherto had suggested only good 
cheer, was destined to have in coming years a terrible 
significance to the household. 

When the blaze was moderate, or the bed of live coals 
not too ample, the children could sit on either side of the 
fireplace and watch the stars through its wide flue ; and this 
was a favorite amusement of Phebe Reynolds, the eldest 
daughter of the house. 

A door opened from the living-room into the other apart- 
ments, furnished in the old massive style that outlasts many 
generations. All the windows were protected by stout oaken 
shutters which, when closed, almost transformed the dwell- 
ing into a fortress, giving security against any ordinary at- 
tack. There were no loopholes in the walls through which 
the muzzle of the deadly rifle could be thrust and fired from 
within. This feature, so common in the primitive abodes 
of the country, was not in accordance with John Reynolds’s 
Quaker principles. While indisposed to fight, it was evi- 
dent that the good man intended to interpose between him- 
self and his enemies all the passive resistance that his stout 
little domicile could offer. 

And he knew that he had enemies of the bitterest and 
most unscrupulous character. He was a stanch Whig, 
loyal to the American cause, and, above all, resolute and 
active in the maintenance of law and order in those lawless 
times. He thus had made himself obnoxious to his Tory 
neighbors, and an object of hate and fear to a gang of 
marauders, who, under the pretence of acting with the Brit- 
ish forces, plundered the country far and near. Claudius 
Smith, the Robin Hood of the Highlands and the terror 
of the pastoral low country, had formerly been their leader ; 
and the sympathy shown by Mr. Reynolds with all the ef- 
forts to bring him to justice which finally resulted in hi^ 


366 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

capture and execution, had awakened among his former as- 
sociates an intense desire for revenge. This fact, well known 
to the farmer, kept him constantly on his guard, and filled 
his wife and daughter Phebe with deep apprehension. 

At the time of our story, Phebe was only twelve years of 
age, but was mature beyond her years. There were several 
younger children, and she had become almost womanly in 
aiding her mother in their care. Her stout, plump little body 
had been developed rather than enfeebled by early toil, and 
a pair of resolute and often mirthful blue eyes bespoke a 
spirit not easily daunted. She was a native growth of the 
period, vitalized by pure air and out-of-door pursuits, and 
she abounded in the shrewd intelligence and demure refine- 
ment of her sect to a degree that led some of their neigh- 
bors to speak of her as “a little old woman.” When alone 
with the children, however, or in the woods and fields, she 
would doff her Quaker primness, and romp, climb trees, and 
frolic with the wildest. 

But of late, the troublous times and her father’s peril 
had brought unwonted thoughtfulness into her blue eyes, and 
more than Quaker gravity to the fresh young face, which, in 
spite of exposure to sun and wind, maintained much of its 
inherited fairness of complexion. Of her own accord she 
was becoming a vigilant sentinel, for a rumor had reached 
Mr. Reynolds that sooner or later he would have a visit 
from the dreaded mountain gang of hard riders. Two 
roads leading to the hills converged on the main high- 
way not far from his dwelling ; and from an adjacent knoll 
Phebe often watched this place, while her father, with a 
lad in his employ, completed their work about the bam. 
When the shadows deepened, all was made as secure 
as possible Without and within, and the sturdy farmer, after 
committing himself and his household to the Divine proteq- 


A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS. 367 

tion, slept as only brave men sleep who are clear in con- 
science and accustomed to danger. 

His faith was undoubtedly rewarded ; but Providence in 
the execution of its will loves to use vigilant human eyes 
and ready, loving hands. The guardian angel destined to 
protect the good man was his blooming daughter Phebe, 
who had never thought of herself as an angel, and indeed 
rarely thought of herself at all, as is usually the case with 
those who do most to sweeten and brighten the world. She 
was a natural, wholesome, human child, with all a child’s 
unconsciousness of self. She knew she could not protect 
her father like a great stalwart son, but she could watch 
and warn him of danger, and as the sequel proved, she 
could do far more. 

The farmer’s habits were well known, and the ruffians of 
the mountains were aware that after he had shut himself in 
he was much like Noah in his ark. If they attempted to 
burn him out, the flames would bring down upon them a 
score of neighbors not hampered by Quaker principles. 
Therefore they resolved upon a sudden onslaught before 
he had finished the evening labors of the farm. This was 
what the farmer feared ; and Phebe, like a vigilant outpost, 
was now never absent from her place of observation until 
called in. 

One spring evening she saw two mounted men descend- 
ing one of the roads which led from the mountains. In- 
stead of jogging quietly out on the highway, as ordinary 
travellers would have done, they disappeared among the 
trees. Soon afterward she caught a glimpse of two other 
horsemen on the second mountain road. One of these 
soon came into full view, and looked up and down as if 
to see that all was clear. Apparently satisfied, he gave a 
low whistle, when three men joined him. Phebe waited to 


368 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

see no more, but sped toward the house, her flaxen curls 
flying from her flushed and excited face. 

They are coming, father ! Thee must be quick ! ” she 
cried. 

But a moment or two elapsed before all were within the 
dwelling, the doors banged and barred, the heavy shutters 
closed, and the home-fortress made secure. Phebe’s warn- 
ing had come none too soon, for they had scarcely time to 
take breath before the tramp of galloping horses and the 
oaths of their baffled foes were heard without. The ma- 
rauders did not dare make much noise, for fear that some 
passing neighbor might give the alarm. Tying their horses 
behind the house, where they would be hidden from the 
road, they tried various expedients to gain an entrance, but 
the logs and heavy planks baffled them. At last one of the 
number suggested that they should ascend the roof and 
climb down the wide flue of the chimney. This plan was 
easy of execution, and for a few moments the stout farmer 
thought that his hour had come. With a heroism far be- 
yond that of the man who strikes down his assailant, he 
prepared to suffer all things rather than take life with his 
own hands. 

But his wife proved equal to this emergency. She had 
been making over a bed, and a large basket of feathers was 
within reach. There were live coals on the hearth, but they 
did not give out enough heat to prevent the ruffians from 
descending. Two of them were already in the chimney, 
and were threatening horrible vengeance if the least re- 
sistance was offered. Upon the coals on the hearth the 
housewife instantly emptied her basket of feathers ; and a 
great volume of pungent, stifling smoke poured up the 
chimney. The threats of the men, who by means of ropes 
were cautiously descending, were transformed into chok- 


A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS. 369 

ing, half- suffocated sounds, and it was soon evident that 
the intruders were scrambling out as fast as possible. A 
hurried consultation on the roof ensued, and then, as if 
something had alarmed them, they galloped off. With the 
exception of the cries of the peepers, or hylas, in an adja- 
cent swamp, the night soon grew quiet around the closed 
and darkened dwelling. Farmer Reynolds bowed in thanks- 
giving over their escape, and then after watching a few hours, 
slept as did thousands of others in those times of anxiety. 

But Phebe did not sleep. She grew old by moments 
that night as do other girls by months and years ; as never 
before she understood that her father’s life was in peril. 
How much that life meant to her and the little brood of 
which she was the eldest ! How much it meant to her 
dear mother, who was soon again to give birth to a little 
one that would need a father’s protection and support ! As 
the young girl lay in her little attic room, with dilated eyes 
and ears intent on the slightest sound, she was ready for 
any heroic self-sacrifice, without once dreaming that she 
was heroic. 

The news of the night-attack spread fast, and there was 
a period of increased vigilance which compelled the out- 
laws to lie close in their mountain fastnesses. But Phebe 
knew that her father’s enemies were still at large with their 
hate only stimulated because baffled for a time. Therefore 
she did not in the least relax her watchfulness ; and she 
besought their nearest neighbors to come to their assistance 
should any alarm be given. 

When the spring and early summer passed without fur- 
ther trouble, they all began to breathe more freely ; but one 
July night John Reynolds was betrayed by his patriotic 
impulses. He was awakened by a loud knocking at his 
door. Full of misgiving, he rose and hastily dressed him- 

24 


370 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

self; Phebe, who had slipped on her clothes at the first 
alarm, joined him and said earnestly, — 

Don’t thee open the door, father, to anybody, at this 
time of night ; ” and his wife, now lying ill and helpless on 
a bed in the adjoining room, added her entreaty to that of 
her daughter. In answer, however, to Mr. Reynolds’s in- 
quiries a voice from without, speaking quietly and seemingly 
with authority, asserted that they were a squad from Wash- 
ington’s forces in search of deserters, and that no harm 
would ensue unless he denied their lawful request. Con- 
scious of innocence, and aware that detachments were often 
abroad on such authorized quests, Mr. Reynolds unbarred 
his door. The moment he opened it he saw his terrible 
error ; not soldiers, but the members of the mountain gang, 
were crouched like wild beasts ready to spring upon him. 

Fly, father ! ” cried Phebe. “They won’t hurt us ; ” 
but before the bewildered man could think what to do, the 
door flew open from the pressure of half a dozen wild- 
looking desperadoes, and he was powerless in their grasp. 
They evidently designed murder, but not a quick and mer- 
ciful “ taking off ; ” they first heaped upon their victim the 
vilest epithets, seeking in their thirst for revenge to inflict 
all the terrors of death in anticipation. The good man, 
however, now face to face with his fate, grew calm and 
resigned. Exasperated by his courage, they began to cut 
and torture him with their swords and knives. Phebe 
rushed forward to interpose her little form between her 
father and the ruffians, and was dashed, half stunned, into 
a comer of the room. Even for the sake of his sick wife, 
the brave farmer could not refrain from uttering groans of 
anguish which brought the poor woman with faltering steps 
into his presence. After one glance at the awful scene she 
sank, half fainting, on a settee near the door. 


A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS. 


3;i 

When the desire for plunder got the better of their 
fiendish cruelty, one of the gang threw a noosed rope over 
Mr. Reynolds’s head, and then they hung him to the tram- 
mel or iron hook in the great chimney. 

“You can’t smoke us out this time,” they shouted. 
“ You ’ve now got to settle with the avengers of Claudius 
Smith ; and you and some others will find us ugly customers 
to settle with.” 

They then rushed off to rob the house, for the farmer 
was reputed to have not a little money in his strong box. 
The moment they were gone Phebe seized a knife and cut 
her father down. Terror and excitement gave her almost 
supernatural strength, and with the aid of the boy in her 
father’s service she got the poor man on a bed which he 
had occupied during his wife’s illness. Her reviving mother 
was beginning to direct her movements when the ruffians 
again entered ; and furious with rage, they again seized and 
hung her father, while one, more brutal than the others, 
whipped the poor child with a heavy rope until he thought 
she was disabled. The girl at first cowered and shivered 
under the blows, and then sank as if lifeless on the floor. 
But the moment she was left to herself she darted forward 
and once more cut her father down. The robbers then 
flew upon the prostrate man and cut and stabbed him until 
they supposed he was dead. Toward his family they medi- 
tated a more terrible and devilish cruelty. After sacking 
the house and taking all the plunder they could carry, they 
relieved the horror-stricken wife and crying, shrieking chil- 
dren of their presence. Their further action, however, 
soon inspired Phebe with a new and more awful fear, for 
she found that they had fastened the doors on the outside 
and were building a fire against one of them. 

For a moment an overpowering despair at the prospect 


372 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 


of their fate almost paralyzed her. She believed her father 
was dead. The boy who had aided her at first was now 
dazed and helpless from terror. If aught could be done in 
this supreme moment of peril she saw that it must be done 
by her hands. The smoke from the kindling fire without 
was already curling in through the crevices around the door. 
There was not a moment, not a second to be lost. The 
ruffians’ voices were growing fainter, and she heard the 
sounds of their horses’ feet. Would they go away in time 
for her to extinguish the fire? She ran to her attic room 
and cautiously opened the shutter. Yes, they were mount- 
ing ; and in the faint light of the late-rising moon she saw 
that they were taking her father’s horses. A moment later, 
as if fearing that the blaze might cause immediate pursuit, 
they dashed off toward the mountains. 

The clatter of their horses’ hoofs had not died away 
before the intrepid girl had opened the shutter of a window 
nearest the ground, and springing lightly out with a pail in 
her hand she rushed to the trough near the bam, which she 
knew was full of water. Back and forth she flew between 
the fire and the convenient reservoir with all the water that 
her bruised arms and back permitted her to carry. For- 
tunately the night was a little damp, and the stout thick 
door had kindled slowly. To her intense joy she soon 
gained the mastery of the flames, and at last extinguished 
them. 

She did not dare to open the door for fear that the robbers 
might return, but clambering in at the window, made all 
secure as had been customary, for now it was her impulse 
to do just as her father would have done. 

She found her mother on her knees beside her father, 
who would indeed have been a ghastly and awful object 
to all but the eyes of love. 


A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS. 373 

Oh, Phebe, I hope — I almost believe thy father 
lives ! ” cried the woman. Is it my throbbing palm, or 
does his heart still beat? ” 

“I’m sure it beats, mother ! ” cried the girl, putting her 
little hand on the gashed and mangled body. 

“ Oh, then there ’s hope ! Here, Abner,” to the boy, 
“ is n’t there any man in thee ? Help Phebe get him on 
the bed, and then we must stop this awful bleeding. O 
that I were well and strong ! Phebe, thee must now take 
my place. Thee may save thy father’s life. I can tell thee 
what to do if thee has the courage.” 

Phebe had the courage, and with deft hands did her 
mother’s bidding. She stanched the many gaping wounds ; 
she gave spirits, at first drop by drop, until at last the 
man breathed and was conscious. Even before the dawn 
began to brighten over the dreaded Highlands which their 
ruthless enemies were already climbing, Phebe was flying, 
bareheaded, across the fields to their nearest neighbor. 
The good people heard of the outrage with horror and 
indignation. A half-grown lad sprang on the bare back 
of a young horse and galloped across the country for a sur- 
geon. A few moments later the farmer, equipped for chase 
and battle, dashed away at headlong pace to alarm the 
neighborhood. The news sped from house to house and 
hamlet to hamlet like fire in prairie grass. The sun had 
scarcely risen before a dozen bronzed and stem-browed 
men were riding into John Reynolds’s farm -yard .under the 
lead of young Hal June, — the best shot that the wars had 
left in the region. The surgeon had already arrived, and 
before he ceased from his labors he had dressed thirty 
wounds. 

The story told by Phebe had been as brief as it was ter- 
rible^ — for she was eager to return to her father and sick 


374 taken ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES. 

mother. She had not dreamed of herself as the heroine of 
the affair, and had not given any such impression, although 
more than one had remarked that she was a plucky little 
chick to give the alarm before it was light.” But when the 
proud mother faintly and tearfully related the particulars of 
the tragedy, and told how Phebe had saved her father’s 
life and probably her mother’s, — for, “ I was too sick to 
climb out of a window,” she said ; when she told how the 
child after a merciless whipping had again cut her father 
down from the trammel-hook, had extinguished the fire, 
and had been nursing her father back to life, while all the 
time in almost agony herself from the cruel blows that had 
been rained upon her, — Phebe was dazed and bewildered 
at the storm of applause that greeted her. And when the 
surgeon, in order to intensify the general desire for ven- 
geance, showed the great welts and scars on her arms 
and neck, gray-bearded fathers who had known her from in- 
fancy took her into their arms and blessed and kissed her. 
For once in his life young Hal June wished he was a gray- 
beard, but his course was much more to the mind of Phebe 
than any number of caresses would have been. Spring- 
ing on his great black horse, and with his dark eyes burning 
with a fire that only blood could quench, he shouted, — 

‘‘Come, neighbors, it’s time for deeds. That brave 
little woman ought to make a man of every mother’s son 
of us ; ” and he dashed away so furiously that Phebe 
thought with a strange little tremor at her heart that he 
might in his speed face the robbers all alone. The stout 
yeomen clattered after him; the sound of their pursuit 
soon died away ; and Phebe returned to woman’s work of 
nursing, watching, and praying. 

The bandits of the hills, not expecting such prompt re- 
taliation, were overtaken, and then followed a headlong race 


A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS. 


375 


over the rough mountain roads, — guilty wretches flying for 
life, and stem men almost reckless in the burning desire 
to avenge a terrible wrong. Although the horses of the 
marauders were tired, their riders were so well acquainted 
with the fastnesses of the wilderness that they led the pur- 
suers through exceedingly difficult and dangerous paths. 
At last, June, ever in the van, caught sight of a man’s form, 
and almost instantly his rifle awoke a hundred echoes 
among the hills. When they reached the place, stains of 
blood marked the ground, proving that at least a wound 
had been given. Just beyond, the gang evidently had dis- 
persed, each one for himself, leaving behind everything 
that impeded their progress. The region was almost im- 
penetrable in its wildness except by those who knew all its 
mgged paths. The body of the man whom June had 
wounded, however, was found, clothed in a suit of Quaker 
drab stolen from Mr. Reynolds. The rest of the band 
with few exceptions met with fates that accorded with 
(their deeds. 

Phebe had the happiness of nursing her father back to 
health, and although maimed and disfigured, he lived to 
a ripe old age. If the bud is the promise of the flower, 
Phebe must have developed a womanhood that was regal 
in its worth ; at the same time I believe that she always 
remained a modest, demure little Quakeress, and never 
thought of her virtues except when reminded of them in 
plain English. 


Note. — In the preceding narrative I have followed almost literally 
a family tradition of events which actually occurred. 


THE END. 


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